


Always Stuck In Second Gear

by ThayerKerbasy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s12e03 The Foundry, Frenemies, Gen, POV Crowley, Past Crowley/Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s12e07 Rock Never Dies, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: After Wendy Vincente spilled the location of her brother's secret cabin, Agents Beyoncé and Jay-Z had a lead to follow.  Tracking Lucifer while confined to a pickup truck wasn't exactly Crowley's preferredmodus operandi, but at least he was in good company.





	1. That Don't Impress Me Much

**Author's Note:**

> The magnificent art for this fic was created by the marvelously talented [dmsilvis](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/) and if you enjoy it, I ask that you please go show their [art masterpost](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/post/162536810273/my-art-masterpost-for-always-stuck-in-second-gear) some love. All that was asked of the canon big bang artists was two pieces of art, and I was blessed with an embarrassment of riches. I hope you all love the art throughout this story as much as I do.
> 
> Also, I can't say thank you enough to [grey2510](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510) for reining my errant punctuation, fixing the occasional sentence structure, and occasionally prodding me to add more character. Some of my favourite lines are courtesy of grey, including a certain conversation over the phone near the end which also appears in grey's SPNCBB [Long Distance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409297/chapters/25556412). Only part of the conversation appears in this fic, so if you want the whole thing, I highly recommend reading Long Distance.

[ ](http://imgur.com/UTi3hKR)

Cruising down the highway in a beat up late ‘80s Ford F-150 was not Crowley’s favourite way to travel. It was bumpy, slow, and incredibly boring, not to mention just plain tacky. Given his choice of any vehicle, Crowley would have upgraded to something with more style. Ideally, he would have simply teleported, but then he would lose his backup.

Behind the wheel of the probably-stolen truck sat Castiel, slightly-damaged angel and imitation FBI agent. His trenchcoat rested on the seat between them, neatly folded, fake badge in the inside breast pocket. Dean would have been proud. He would have laughed his arse off at the name on said badge, but underneath the laughter, he would have been proud. Crowley made a mental note to get his own badge.

The sun was shining bright in the sky and it was all thanks to Dean Winchester’s sacrifice. If the universe had been fair, it would have been literally anyone else. Crowley could think of countless people who would have been much better sacrifices to destroy the Darkness, but of course none of them had been hand-picked by Amara. The universe wasn’t fair, Dean was dead, and Crowley was stuck with the most unlikely of partners because they both happened to share the same vendetta. Revenge was all he had left.

Revenge demanded a catchy soundtrack. Crowley reached out to turn on the radio but was intercepted by Castiel’s lightning-quick hand. Shrugging, Crowley mimed turning on the radio with his other hand and sent the tiniest surge of power to do it for him. “You’re Still the One” by Shania Twain played through the truck’s speakers. Apparently the truck’s prior owner had replaced the original sound system with a radio/cassette/cd player combo and excellent surround sound speakers, but the setup was still over a decade old at least.

A full line of the chorus managed to play before Castiel clicked the dial off again. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Crowley spread his hands in a half shrug. “Well, go on and pick something, then. It’s too bloody quiet.”

Both hands already back on the wheel, Castiel shook his head minutely. “No. I like the quiet.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley sighed. At their current speed, they had ages to go. Of course, one line was all it took for the song to get stuck in his head. Glancing sidelong over at Castiel revealed one boring angel with his eyes glued to the road. Fine, then. Crowley hummed the intro to the song, then began to softly sing, rumbling an octave below that of Ms. Twain.

_Looks like we made it_  
_Look how far we’ve come my baby_  
_We mighta took the long way_  
_We knew we’d get there someday_

It wasn’t the best song to showcase his host body’s voice, but it was a lovely tune. It was also perfect for dealing with all of his rogue _feelings_. Crowley had never asked to become more human — had protested against it rather loudly, in fact — but since there was no going back without decades of excruciating torture, it was about time he thought about maybe finding a better way of dealing with it. Music therapy sounded entertaining, at least.

Apparently, Castiel thought otherwise. The glare he leveled at Crowley could have stripped wallpaper. It wasn’t a smiting glare, though, so Crowley continued to sing, pointing at the road to remind Castiel where his eyes should be focused. For a moment it looked like it might have become a smiting glare after all, but then he went back to driving responsibly. Crowley smiled to himself and sang a little louder whenever he hit the chorus.

“You’re Still the One” put Crowley into a Shania Twain sort of mood. Once he wrapped that up, he glanced over at Castiel again. The blasted angel’s ever present frown eased a little at the return of silence. Crowley hadn’t pushed his luck far enough yet, so he launched into an upbeat rendition of “I’m Gonna Getcha Good!”

The very first line set Castiel to simmering again. To the average observer, there would be little change, but Crowley had grown adept at seeing past that angelic façade to the emotions in microexpressions. He hadn’t expected outright mourning over Dean’s death — the very idea of Castiel giving away that much of his emotional state was almost laughable — but he had thought to see _something_ beyond irritation. Again, he sang louder on the chorus.

_I'm gonna getcha while I gotcha in sight_  
_I'm gonna getcha if it takes all night_  
_You can betcha by the time I say "go," you'll never say "no"_  
_I'm gonna getcha; it's a matter of fact_  
_I'm gonna getcha, don'tcha worry 'bout that_  
_You can bet your bottom dollar, in time you're gonna be mine_  
_Just like I should - I'll getcha good_

If Crowley hadn’t been necessary to Castiel as the only one between them who could manage proper intelligent detective work, he surely would have been dodging an angel blade. Crowley was under no illusions: he knew how much Castiel hated letting him live, but Crowley had made survival into an art form. Castiel wasn’t going to kill him because he was too useful to kill.

It might not have done anything for the angel’s mood, but Crowley was thoroughly enjoying himself. He waited a full minute after the song was done, allowing Castiel to let his guard down a little, then began drumming his fingers on the truck to the opening beats of “That Don’t Impress Me Much”. He drummed through the entire first verse of the song, then abruptly switched gears and started to sing “No One Needs to Know”.

Castiel’s grip tightened on the wheel, his eyes narrowed, and he growled through gritted teeth, “Crowley…”

In turn, Crowley turned wide, innocent eyes toward Castiel. “What? I can’t try to lighten your mood a little? The past while has been an _extraordinarily_ trying time for the both of us. I can’t help but feel Dean would have wanted us to enjoy ourselves in his memory.”

Crowley had anticipated any number of responses, from another smiting-style glare to more growling, right through to orders to ride in the back — orders which he wouldn’t have followed — but none of that happened. Instead, Castiel gave him the confused puppy head tilt. “You’re trying to cheer me up… to honour Dean’s memory?”

“Of course! Who else is going to? Certainly not Moose. That big galoot probably hasn’t done something for the sake of fun in donkey’s years.”

That earned Crowley another confused puppy head tilt, but at least the angry eyes were gone. With his attention focused on the road out of necessity, Castiel drove with a befuddled look on his generally only slightly confused face. Crowley took advantage of the moment to resume his Shania-thon. With a grin on his face and genuine enthusiasm in his voice, he sang “You Win My Love”. He wasn’t even offended by Castiel’s exasperated groan.

When they climbed back into the truck several hours later, neither spoke at first. Castiel sighed and turned the key, but didn’t make a move to go anywhere. Crowley watched him for a moment, then glanced at the display. They weren’t quite out of fuel yet, but it wouldn’t be long. It had been years since Castiel had unknowingly allowed his pimpmobile to run out of fuel, and he had quite likely learned from the experience, but angels were task-oriented. He needed a simple task of some sort, and that would do nicely. Leaning over slightly, Crowley made a show of checking the fuel again. “I believe we probably have about an hour’s worth of fuel left in this antique on wheels. Did you by chance happen to note the location of someplace where we might remedy that?”

Castiel leveled a fresh glare at Crowley, but he started driving again. “There was a sign indicating the presence of a Gas ‘n’ Sip a few miles ahead. That should suffice. Of course, we have no idea what to do after that.”

Shaking his head, Crowley waved off his concerns. “One thing at a time, Cassie. Time is something we have now, thanks to Mother. We’ll find a way to track Lucifer again, and in the meantime we can sort out a way to kill the bastard or pop him out of his vessel so Mother can slam him back in the cage where he belongs. We should be grateful, really.”

Flashing Crowley an incredulous look, Castiel turned onto the little two lane road leading to the freeway. “He’s at the bottom of the ocean, Crowley. How are we supposed to find him there? Unless you’re volunteering to physically scour the ocean floor yourself.”

The meticulous search for the First Blade flashed through Crowley’s head. Stopping every few hours to protect himself and his hellhound from the salt had been a pain, to say the least.

“Been there, done that, didn’t even get the t-shirt. Besides, I wouldn’t want to run into His Royal Nastiness all by my lonesome. For all we know, he might find a vessel down there. He could be anything — a dolphin, a seahorse, a blobfish — and I wouldn’t know until I was back in a collar and chains. No, thanks.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel sighed heavily. “Fine, then, what do you suggest?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t exactly have a plan as such, but I had thought I might get in touch with my contact at one of the major news studios. Everyone’s so quick to sell their soul for a leg up, but then the buyer’s remorse kicks in and they want to know how to buy it back. I have a few folks like that in high places more than willing to trade favours in the hopes of earning their soul back someday.”

“Do you know just how despicable you sound right now?”

“Are you really going to complain if it nets us a lead on Lucifer? Besides, I don’t know what you’re so bothered by. I’m entirely upfront and honest with my clients, _and_ I give them a way out of it. I don’t see anyone else being so generous with their terms.”

Castiel sighed and shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Typical. Always the same thing: anti-demon prejudice. They might agree to work together, but there was always someone claiming moral superiority simply on the basis that they weren’t a demon. As if they hadn’t all done worse, Castiel included.

As the miles rolled on, the scenery whipped past at a respectable speed. Castiel had likely learned to drive by watching Dean, which meant neither of them gave the speed limit more than a passing glance. If either of them had anything to fear from a wreck, Crowley might have been concerned. As it was, he wished the old rust bucket would move faster.

He was bored. Dean was gone, Lucifer was Chuck-only-knew-where, his mother was still trying to stay as far away from him as possible, and there was nothing he could do about any of that. Since there was no point in dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed, that left very little else. The angel was the only source of entertainment in the vehicle.

“So… where’s your Moose? I would’ve thought you’d have been working with him on this whole thing.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Castiel replied, “Sam is… Sam has other things to worry about. I told him I’d call if I needed help.”

Crowley nodded once. “Of course. Probably busy trying to find something with which to bribe that reaper, Billie, to bring his brother back. Most likely offering his own soul in trade, of course, not that she’d go for that. Stickler for the rules, that one. Still, I’d imagine good ol’ Moose is surrounded by books in that sad excuse for a safe house, stinking of desperation and cheap booze. No wonder it was so easy to wear you down.”

Looking more irritated than upset, Castiel frowned. “You didn’t wear anything down. You’re here because you’re useful and available. For your sake, pray that doesn’t change.”

Either Castiel had grown a thicker skin during his time as Lucifer’s meatsuit, or Crowley’s taunts had somehow missed the mark. Much as it irked him to consider, it was most likely a combination of both. There was something he had missed, something that Castiel hadn’t, and it was colouring their every conversation.

“Oh Cassie, always the flirt. I am incredibly useful and most definitely available, I just didn’t know you were interested.”

“I’m not. You talk too much.”

“Admit it, I’m growing on you.”

“Like Stachybotrys.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and was saved the indignity of coming up with a response to that by the appearance of their destination. “There we are. Go ahead and put thirty-five dollars in the tank. Don’t worry, it’s on me.”

He didn’t bother to wait, but teleported just outside the building while Castiel was still pulling up to the fuel pumps, partly because he was impatient and partly because he knew just how much it would irritate the angel, who was determined to play things as humanly as possible. Appearing at the corner of the building — because anyone surprised to see him would immediately assume he had just rounded the corner — he crossed the few steps to the door and gave Castiel a quick thumbs up before entering.

Not wasting any time, Crowley grabbed a bag of pretzels, a cup of coffee, and a magazine. While the clerk was ringing up his purchases, he reached into a pocket — which held only his phone, but which was convenient for covering up the fact that he made things appear out of nowhere — and withdrew fifty dollars and said phone. Handing the fifty over to the clerk, he dialed a phone number with one hand and reclaimed his purchases with the other.

“Keep the change.”

The timing was close, but he managed to get outside the building and teleport back into the truck just as Castiel opened his door. Crowley mustered up a cheerful smile and offered the coffee to a bewildered Castiel. Which was, of course, the moment his phone stopped ringing and actually connected. “Yes, hello,” he said. “Mr. Crowley calling to speak with Mr. Baier, if you please.”

The receptionist placed him on hold while she connected the call. Castiel took the coffee, head tilted and eyebrows furrowed, examining Crowley as if he were a puzzle to be solved. While Crowley explained to his contact what he wanted the news team to watch for, Castiel moved the truck away from the fuel pumps, parked off to one side, then took a cautious sniff of his coffee. One would almost imagine he had never been human, the experimental way he went about it. With his free hand, Crowley reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew sugar packets, creamer cups, and a stir stick — such a handy pocket — and handed them to Castiel.

It took very little persuading to convince his contact to keep an eye out for sightings of Vince Vincente. While he wrapped up his conversation, he had the pleasure of watching Castiel, angel of the lord, pour both sugar packets into his coffee before stirring it with the flimsy wooden stick. Ending the call, Crowley pocketed his phone. “If my contact gets word of even a hint of Vince Vincente, I’ll be the first to hear of it.”

Tongue darting out between soft pink lips, Castiel licked the stir stick from one end to the other. It was sorely tempting to remark on his technique — the innuendo practically wrote itself — but Crowley was relatively certain it would get him instantly incinerated, or would at least derail the conversation before they could hash out a plan. Pity, there was nothing worse than wasted innuendo.

Empty sugar packets and licked stir stick in one hand, coffee in the other, Castiel’s eyes scanned the interior of the truck rapidly. Crowley rolled his eyes, emptied the pretzels and magazine out of the plastic Gas n Sip bag, then slipped one handle of the bag over the gear lever. Castiel disposed of his trash and put the lid back on his coffee. “Thank you. For the coffee, I mean. Not that I need it, but the taste has…grown on me.”

Crowley gave a smug nod. “You’re welcome. See? This doesn’t have to be awful. Give it time, you never know what else might grow on you.”

“Yes, like Stachybotrys, we’ve already established that.”

Shaking his head, Crowley opened the bag of pretzels. “For someone who’s older than the dawn of time, you are _such_ a child.”

“Says the one who’s still trying to impress his mother.”

“I am not even going to dignify that with a response. Instead, I am going to suggest that perhaps we might want to decide where we’re going next.”

“If we’re not going to the bottom of the ocean, then what else is there to be done?”

“Well, let me think.” Crowley took a moment to eat a pretzel before continuing, the salt burning his tongue in the best way. “I don’t suppose there’s any way in which we could _possibly_ trace what Lucifer’s strongest vessels might have in common, is there?”

“Angelic vessels are selected based on bloodline. Since Lucifer appears to have given up on Sam, I would assume his vessels must be in some way related to him through the Campbell line. I suppose we could talk to the families of the burnt out vessels to confirm it.”

“Too time consuming.” He already had his phone back out again. “Welcome to the twenty-first century where we can order Chinese food, book a hotel, and trace your family tree all online. Get back on the freeway and we’ll head back to the city where we can do this properly.”

Hesitating a moment, Castiel gave him a long, considering look, then turned on the radio. Crowley didn’t say a word, but merely raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Castiel took his first sip of coffee before answering. “I had to listen to you sing Shania Twain for over an hour. At least a radio station has some semblance of variety.”

The song on the radio chose that moment to end, the music fading into a peppy voice with a distinctly southern drawl. “That was Keith Urban’s ‘Somebody Like You’ and next we have Shania Twain with ‘Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under’ right after these words from our sponsor.”

For a long moment, neither one of them moved. A fast talking man replaced the southern belle, trying to talk listeners into visiting a local car dealership. Crowley smiled and returned to tapping in a search on his phone. Castiel took another sip of his coffee, then changed the radio station.


	2. The Heart Wants What It Wants

Despite the fact that neither of them needed to sleep, the search for Lucifer’s possible vessels was exhausting. It wasn’t a new thought, but Crowley was once again considering partnered research marathons as a future punishment for rebellious souls. Burning their research when they were done could elevate it to a whole new level of torment.

Monopolizing a table at the library during the day and updating the enormous family tree pinned to their motel wall during the night occupied them both for a solid week. When the information they sought wasn’t available online, both jumped at the excuse to relocate. While Castiel took down the paper and string family tree, Crowley made sure it was still intact in spreadsheet form on his laptop. Once Crowley was certain that his spreadsheet was accurate and updated, he waited and watched Castiel. He could have helped, but it was far more entertaining to recline on the bed and watch for several minutes first.

It took approximately three minutes for Castiel to notice Crowley wasn’t doing anything. Timing was everything, so he waited until Castiel’s face began to contort into its trademark smiting glare, then slid out of bed. “Don’t worry about those, I’ll take care of it.”

A casual gesture with one hand popped all of the pins out of the wall and into their box, another caught the papers in an envelope before they could fall, and a third gathered all of the string in a neat ball, all of which dropped onto a table. Rather than looking impressed or grateful, Castiel’s smitey glare had amplified. “You mean you could have done that at any time? We could have been gone by now?”

Holding up both hands, Crowley attempted to placate the unreasonably angry angel. “Of course not. I just finished double checking the spreadsheet. Wouldn’t want all our hard work to go to waste. You’ll be wanting to reassemble this branch of Lucifer’s twisted family tree wherever we end up next.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and picked up the things Crowley’s power had gathered for him. “Whatever. Let’s just get going.”

Castiel’s phone chose that moment to ring. The family tree supplies were crammed into a trenchcoat pocket so Castiel could answer the phone unencumbered. He then stepped outside, strongly indicating with a gesture that Crowley shouldn’t follow. Of course the witless wonder must have forgotten that Crowley was a demon and could hear all sorts of things that ordinary mortals could not. Castiel’s voice was clearly audible through the door and, though it was a little tinny, Crowley could just make out the other voice.

“Hello?”

“Heya Cas, I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

“Of course, Dean. What do you need?”

“We're workin’ a case here and the vic shows all the classic signs of stigmata. Any chance a rogue angel might be involved?”

“Well, Heaven's still on lockdown, and I haven't heard anything on angel radio. It's always possible, but I honestly don't think it's very likely.”

“Alright. Hey, uh, any luck with the whole Lucifer thing?”

“We're still trying to track him down. We're investigating to see if there's a family connection between his vessels now.”

“A family con— Wait, ‘we’? Who's ‘we’?”

“I'm...working with Crowley.”

“Crowley? As in king of Hell Crowley? You're working with _that_ Crowley?”

“I was unaware you knew so many Crowleys. Yes, that Crowley. He seems to be better at talking to witnesses than I am. We were just about to go talk to the family of—”

“Cas, you be careful, alright? I know he's mellowed, he's not the scumbag he used to be, but...it's Crowley.”

“I'm well aware, Dean. He's motivated to cooperate this time. The Devil took his mother hostage before she used a spell to banish him to the bottom of the ocean. Between that and his time as Lucifer's prisoner, I believe Crowley has ample reason to want revenge.”

“So, wait, Rowena saw Lucifer? She knows who he's wearing?”

“As far as I know, he's using a rock star named Vince Vincente as his vessel.“

“Wait wait, what?”

“Vince Vi—”

“You serious?”

“Why, is that strange?”

“Yes, Cas, it's weird. Really, really weird.”

“Sorry Dean, I should really get going. Crowley's—”

“Alright yeah, um, thanks for the heads up.”

The call ended, but Crowley stood in a daze, still processing what he had heard. Dean wasn’t dead. Of course there were other matters of import to be extrapolated. Castiel was willingly investigating Lucifer without Dean, and had defended his choice to work with Crowley. Dean was working on something else rather than the much more important Lucifer issue. But mainly, Dean wasn’t dead. 

Also, Castiel had kept that little fact from him. That would need to be addressed at some point, but not until Crowley had all his wits about him. Honestly, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Dean had somehow survived the destruction of God and the Darkness. The number of times he had returned from the dead, Dean Winchester could probably have nominated himself for sainthood and the Vatican would grant it.

The sound of Castiel’s footsteps walking away from both the room and the truck meant the bastard was leaving to return the room key to the front desk. It might have been the last time Crowley would be left alone without having to worry about Castiel taking off without him. He probably should have called someone or left to check on his affairs, but he didn’t. What was the point? There was no one in Hell who would follow his orders while Lucifer was free, his mortal contacts had already promised to call him if anything came up, and his business interests essentially ran themselves. The only one who needed anything from him or gave half a damn about his existence was a damaged seraph, and even that was debatable. His phone in his pocket and laptop in his hands, Crowley teleported to the passenger seat of the truck to wait.

Several minutes later, Castiel opened the driver’s side door and slid into his seat as if it were business as usual. He started the engine, shifted the truck into gear, and pulled out onto the open road. The radio was still on the peppy pop rock station Castiel had tuned it to the week prior, the breathy and sensual tones of Selena Gomez entirely at odds with the image the angel usually projected. Not that Crowley was complaining. It was no Tom Jones or The Main Ingredient, but it could have been worse. At least it wasn’t Neil Diamond.

The miles flew by. Castiel was talking. He was probably saying something important, but Crowley couldn’t have said what it was about. Staring out the window, Crowley watched as the trees and grassy fields whipped by in a blur of sameness. The rumbling bass that was Castiel became little more than percussion for the song on the radio. 

_Save your advice 'cause I won't hear_  
_You might be right but I don't care_  
_There's a million reasons why I should give you up_  
_But the heart wants what it wants_

********** **

********** **

Like the growl of some wild animal, Castiel’s voice cut into the song, “Crowley…”

Jerking his head up — he wasn’t sure when he had leaned it on the window — Crowley replied, “Huh? Oh, no, I wasn’t paying attention.” 

Castiel sighed. “I said that we might be going about this all wrong. It’s going to take too long to figure out Lucifer’s next vessel. We should be looking to see if he’s done anything in the ocean that’d show up on the equipment monitoring ocean currents.”

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, but what came out was, “How long have you known?”

The puzzlement on Castiel’s face made him look more brainless than usual. “How long have I known the pointlessness of our current course of action?”

Making no effort to hide his scorn, Crowley snarled, “No, you featherless bird brain. How long have you known that Dean’s not dead?”

Continuing to stare at the road ahead, Castiel’s face smoothed from confused frown to tight-lipped hesitation. Finally, his shoulders slumped. “Since the day after we thought he died.”

“But then how are we all still amongst the living? That whole dying sun business?”

“Apparently Dean was able to convince God and the Darkness to reconcile their differences. She healed Him and now they’re off exploring the universe together.”

“Just like that? Dean played Dr. Phil and now the happy family is touring the cosmos? How long, exactly, did you plan to keep me in the dark?”

Castiel shook his head once. “It wasn’t my call. That was Dean’s decision to make. I thought, if he hadn’t told you…”

Letting his head fall back against the seat back, Crowley exhaled forcefully. “Of course.” He closed his eyes, allowed himself a full second to pull himself together, then pulled out his phone. “So, we’re talking oceanologists? Scientists monitoring deep ocean seismic data? I may know someone.”


	3. Told You I'll Be Here Forever

Crowley’s contact at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography in Florida had promised to alert them to anything odd. She had nothing new to report, but also promised to set up a meeting with one of the researchers at their California branch. It should have been a thirty-five hour drive, but that failed to take into account such things as traffic and refuelling stops, so Crowley told her to set up something that could be firmed up once they got closer.

For the first few hours, everything was alright. The fuel tank was full, they were well-rested, and the radio was sufficient entertainment. As time passed, however, Crowley’s muscles became stiff from disuse and the songs on the radio grew repetitive, thanks to having to switch to a new station. If he never had to listen to Justin Bieber again, he would be thrilled.

Two hours in and Crowley was bored. Nothing new had popped up on his phone, the music was all the same songs they had heard last time, and the scenery was less than inspiring. Unfortunately the truck wouldn’t need refueling for another couple of hours yet, so he was stuck.

Turning around in his seat in an effort to stretch, he saw it: behind the seat was the magazine he had bought at the Gas n Sip just outside Sagamore Hills. He ignored Castiel’s protests in favour of something far more entertaining. Stretching as best he could, he then summoned the magazine to his hand. Satisfied, he sat back in his seat and flashed Castiel a smile.

The expression on Castiel’s face was definitely one of his less irritated ones, but still less-than pleased. “If a police officer were to see you doing that, we’d have to waste time pulling over and erasing their memory.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “At least I’d get to stretch my legs. But no, there’s no cops around. We’re fine, which means you can pick up the speed a tad.”

The creases in Castiel’s forehead deepened. Apparently he had stepped up to the next level of irritated. “I’m already driving ten miles over the legal limit. Any faster and we’ll attract unwanted attention.”

Sighing, Crowley tried to shift to a more comfortable position. When that proved impossible, he opened up the magazine and flipped through, searching for an article he hadn’t read yet. When he found it, he grinned. It was too perfect. “Oh look, a friendship quiz: ‘Besties forever or just for now — find out how your relationship will stand the test of time.’ Let’s see how we do, Feathers.”

Still seething, Castiel muttered, “We’re not friends.”

“Let’s see what _Teen Vogue_ has to say about that. First question: ‘How long have you guys been friends so far?’ Well now, we’ve been on again, off again for almost six years, haven’t we?”

“Is one of the options _never_?”

“No. Years it is, then. Next question: What’s the most annoying thing she’s ever done? Hmm… ‘borrowed my favourite shirt and never gave it back to me’? No, I have to say, you’re quite respectful of my wardrobe.”

“I don’t want your shirts.”

“The feeling is mutual, dear. I suppose that leaves either ‘Gloated a little when she beat me in debate’ or ‘Told my crush I like him when I specifically told her not to’.” Crowley leveled a pointed look towards Castiel. “You are the gloating sort, as I recall.”

“And you’re not?”

“Well then, at least we’re in agreement about something. ‘What’s the biggest secret she knows about you?’ Hmm, ‘Something so big and embarrassing I can’t even say it out loud to anyone else’, ‘What really happened between me and my arch nemesis’, or ‘That I think the nerdy guy in homeroom is kind of cute’. Well, I think Dean might object to being called nerdy...”

Castiel actually appeared to consider for a moment. “What happens if you can choose more than one?”

“It says the _biggest_ secret, so presumably the one with the most impact were it to become public knowledge.”

“Oh, then the first one.”

Crowley slowly turned to look at Castiel, evaluating his expression. Though he had become more expressive over the years, the angel’s poker face was still impeccable when he wanted it to be. The silence drew out between them long enough for Crowley to identify Fifth Harmony on the radio, though not the song. “What _exactly_ do you think you know about me?”

“It’s big and embarrassing and the quiz seems to imply that I shouldn’t say it out loud.”

“Bugger that, what the hell do you know?!”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose and lowered. “You hate being King of Hell, you hate your fellow demons… you’re lonely.”

Crowley sneered, “Course I’m not lonely, I’m on a road trip with my bestie, aren’t I?”

Castiel shrugged. “Whatever you say. If I’m wrong, I guess I’ll have to go with number three, although that’s not really a secret.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Fine, whatever, I’ll mark option one.” He grimaced at Castiel’s smug smile. “Next: ‘Has she ever talked about you behind your back?’ ‘No way’, ‘I don’t think so’, or ‘Yes, but I’ve been guilty of doing that to her, too’.”

Both glanced at the other before answering in unison, “Three.”

Castiel continued, “How many more questions are there?”

Without bothering to look down, Crowley shrugged. “Don’t know. Reading ahead would spoil the surprise. On to question five? ‘What’s the most long-term plans you’ve made with her?’ ‘Where we’re going to live after college and what our Maid of Honour dresses are going to be for each other’ —”

“Neither of us is in college, nor will we require maid of honour dresses.”

“Of course not all of the options are going to fit. That’s how these things work. So, if I might be permitted to continue…” Crowley waited to be certain he wasn’t about to be interrupted again. “Danke. Option two: ‘How often we’re going to visit each other during college’, and the third being ‘What we’re doing this weekend’. Well, I suppose that one’s simple enough.”

“We should probably be planning what we’re going to do this weekend after we speak with the scientists at the Institute.”

“After we get our test results. Aren’t you dying to know what _Teen Vogue_ has to say about our eternal friendship?” 

“No.”

Ignoring Castiel’s response, he continued, “We’re going to be stuck in here for nearly two days, Cassie. The planning session can wait a few minutes. So, next question: ‘How often do you guys get in touch with each other when you don’t see each other at school?’ I suppose our efforts to save the world and keep it running Lucifer-free would be the equivalent.”

Castiel nodded a brief, grudging agreement, so Crowley grinned and continued. “Our choices are ‘Every day’, ‘Once a week’, or ‘Does liking each other’s pics on Facebook count?’”

The confused frown was back, complete with narrowed eyes, tilted head, and parted lips. “I don’t get in touch with you unless it’s absolutely necessary, but what’s Facebook?”

Without hesitation, Crowley replied, “A website where people share political opinions, clickbait articles, and photos that nobody wants to see. The sentiment seems to apply though, so let’s go with that.”

The next question required him to turn the page. When he saw it, he hesitated. Apparently, he hesitated too long because the blasted angel asked, “Is that it? There seem to be an insufficient amount of questions to gauge the quality of a friendship.”

Crowley sighed. “The next question is, ‘If you were in trouble, where would she be on the list of people to call and help you out?’ ‘First’, ‘In the top five’, or ‘Honestly, I'm not sure she'd be very helpful.’”

“There aren’t many people willing to help me anymore. You’re only here because you’re not capable of taking on Lucifer without my help.”

“That’s not—”

Ignoring his objections, Castiel kept on talking over him. “Top five.”

“For what it’s worth, you’re in my top five, too.” Before the conversation could get bogged down, Crowley moved on. “Oh, here’s one you’ll love. ‘How important is it to you that you keep in touch when you’re adults?’ ‘Very!’, ’Pretty important — at least that’s how I feel right now’, or ‘It’d be nice, but I don’t think I’ll be devastated if we lose touch.’”

“I wouldn’t be upset if you lost my phone number. And does it matter if you’re never going to grow up?”

Eyebrows raised, Crowley had to concede a point. “I don’t wanna grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid. I suppose you’ll be opting for the third choice, then.”

While Castiel rumbled an unnecessary confirmation, Crowley tallied up his answers, then read the results. "’There are some things about your friendship that aren’t quite perfect, and you’re totally aware of that. Whether there are some love/hate feelings happening between the two of you, or you just can’t trust her with the big stuff, you might hold back a little when it comes to making this relationship strong enough to survive the years. Granted, this could be a new friendship, and if that’s the case, it’ll take some time to develop into something deeper. But either way, have fun right now and keep expanding your squad for BFFs that will be there for you ‘til the end.’ _”_

“This article is far too generous. I suspect we got the worst result, in which case there should be something worse than that.”

Crowley’s hand flew to his chest, to where his meatsuit’s heart no longer beat. “Castiel, I’m hurt, I truly am. The very notion that you don’t feel as strongly about our friendship _wounds_ me.”

“We’re not friends, Crowley. This is a partnership of necessity. After we find Lucifer and send him back to the Cage, I hope to never see you again.”

“Well, in the meantime you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”

He would have left it at that, but then he heard the song on the radio. Of all people, Rihanna and Jay-Z. He leaned towards Castiel, grinned, and sang along with Rihanna.

_Because when the sun shines, we'll shine together_  
_Told you I'll be here forever_  
_Said I'll always be your friend_  
_Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end_

The glare was back, though Castiel at least had the courtesy to wait until the chorus was over before interrupting. “You’re Agent Jay-Z. You’re singing the wrong part.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Crowley spread his hands wide in protest of his innocence. “Jay-Z’s part was at the beginning, it’s already done. Besides, Rihanna’s words were going unappreciated. I simply took it upon myself to bring them to your attention.”

An irritated huff was Castiel’s only response. Two and a half hours down, at least thirty-two more to go, and the scenery was still the most boring thing in all of Chuck’s creation. The billboards weren’t half bad, though.

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

After refueling outside Davenport, Crowley proposed they play the cow game. “It’s easy. Any time you see cows, you count them and add them to your total. First one to count them claims them. If you pass a cemetery on your side of the car, and I happen to notice and say that your cows are buried, you lose your cows. A white horse counts as five cows. The one with the most cows by the time we hit the next state is the winner.”

Castiel grumbled about it, but once Crowley began to amass a herd of virtual cows, he was more than eager to participate. Though Crowley was quick and perceptive, he was no match for an angel: in less than half an hour, Castiel had more than twice Crowley’s cows — so of course Crowley had to counter that.

Initially, Crowley counted mile markers along with cows, citing his desire to track their progress. Being careful to keep his cow count in his head, he started reading the various road signs as well, slowly adding more and more until he was keeping a running commentary on everything he could see while still looking for cows. He was only able to claim one herd of cows before the distraction no longer worked. Castiel counted and called the next herd before Crowley even noticed it.

Abandoning the signs, Crowley paid particular attention to the fields so he could try to at least spot the cows first. When a herd appeared, he quickly used his powers to change the radio station. Predictably, when Taylor Swift was interrupted by The Manhattans, Castiel immediately changed it back. “Crowley!”

Crowley donned the most innocent expression he could muster. “My apologies. Must’ve slipped. Eighteen cows.”

“Eighteen…” Castiel’s anger was immediately evident. “You mean you did that just so you could steal a herd of cows for your count?”

Scoffing, Crowley shook his head. “They’re not _stolen_. That was a perfectly viable distraction technique. If you had thought of it, you would have been _more_ than willing to utilize it. I’m calling a double standard here.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Whatever, just don’t mess with the radio.”

When the next herd appeared over the horizon, Crowley didn’t even bother to count. He did make it look like he was counting, though. He put on the appropriately frustrated expression when Castiel added the cows to his total, but continued to scan the horizon. They had passed a sign not long back that said a town was up ahead and Crowley didn’t intend to miss it.

So many little towns were all the same. The main population was clustered away from the interstate, but on the outskirts were all the farms and everything else that one didn’t necessarily want to see on Main Street, Smalltown. He knew what to expect and was prepared.

He didn’t even bother to count a full herd when he first saw them, instead claiming the handful of cows who had escaped their field. Castiel claimed the remaining herd with a smug smile. Crowley flashed him a smile of his own and claimed four white horses.

Around the corner, the next herd came into view. Crowley made a show of counting the cows, but when Castiel claimed them, Crowley pretended to keep counting. Frowning, Castiel asked, “I already counted those. Why are you still counting them?”

Crowley’s lips curved up in a satisfied smirk. “Because your cows are buried.”

He pointed to a cemetery that had just come into view. Castiel gritted his teeth and turned up the radio. The cow game was done and Crowley had to listen to Ariana Grande at an uncomfortable volume, but it was worth it.


	4. I Really Like You

It was during a construction delay near Des Moines that Crowley decided he’d had enough. He quickly calculated approximately how long it would take each car to move past the delay, worked out how long the delay was likely to keep them there, then subtracted a little just in case. The radio was spewing out Bieber’s latest attempt at relatability, making Crowley desperate to escape, if only for a bit. Now _there_ was a soul he wouldn’t mind tending to personally in a few years.

Plan set out, details calculated, Crowley smiled and clapped his hands once. “Well, we seem to be fairly stationary for the moment. I’m just going to pop out. Back in a tick!”

Before Castiel could ask stupid questions or voice an objection, Crowley left, arriving in his personal chambers. He knew he didn’t have long — either the untraceable Castiel would get through the construction delay, or Lucifer’s minions would discover Crowley’s presence — so he immediately set to work. Because one could never be too careful, he had spell components for witchcraft scattered all over the room in little hiding places.

From a storage locker, he retrieved a pouch of dried herbs. He wouldn’t have time to gather everything at once, so best to start with something small and easily concealed. The herbs went into his jacket pocket, then he set about searching for something to explain his absence. A small knife for ingredient preparation could also double as self defense — without even considering it, he slipped it into his pocket — but wasn’t what he was looking for.

With Lucifer on the bottom of the ocean, it was highly unlikely that someone would be in the throne room, so Crowley decided to take a chance. He teleported to the throne room immediately behind the throne. A quick glance around revealed no one, but he didn’t have the time for a proper search. On the floor, just off to the side of his throne was the thing he sought. He snatched it up and wasted no time in teleporting back to the site of the traffic jam, making three stops along the way just in case he was being followed.

He arrived on the roadside, beside a powder blue Mustang with the top down. A red-faced man sat behind the wheel shouting profanities at the world in general and the traffic in particular. Smiling to himself, Crowley scanned the mass of vehicles until he located Castiel’s redneck wonder, then waited until the loud-mouthed buffoon was looking in his direction. “You really ought to relax a little. Put the top up, change the radio station, perhaps schedule a spa visit. All that yelling, you’re going to give yourself an aneurism.”

From behind the wheel of his overly expensive overcompensation, the hypermasculine bundle of road rage paused in his tirade to look at Crowley. “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Far ahead, the Ford F-150 was beginning to move again. Crowley smiled thinly and waved with just his fingertips. “Sorry, no time to chat. Must be going now.”

He teleported into the passenger seat just as the truck cleared the delay and began to pick up speed. Castiel’s angel blade dropped into his right hand and was pointed at Crowley before he could say a word. Crowley raised his hands and Castiel growled, “Dammit Crowley!”

Crowley’s only possible response was bravado. “Miss me?”

Tucking the angel blade back up in his sleeve, Castiel returned his attention to the road. “No. The vehicle was much quieter without you.”

Smirking, Crowley asked, “Does Bieber’s voice improve at all if you can hear him clearly?”

Without an angel blade in his face, Crowley attempted to get comfortable again, though the hard, lumpy seat made it difficult. After a minute, he gave up and began investigating the condition of the thing he’d retrieved. Castiel glanced over, then did a double take and frowned. “Did you disappear just to get a stupid comic book?”

Of course he had gone for something else, but Castiel couldn’t know that. “I’ll have you know, this is golden age _Superman #206_ , _The Day Superman Became An Assassin,_ from 1968.”

Castiel frowned. “The one where Superman is framed for the murder of his friend, Dyno-Man?”

Eyebrows raised, Crowley studied Castiel. Considering how clueless Castiel usually was about such things, there was no way he should have been at all familiar with the plot of a comic, even if it was nearly fifty years old. “Since when do you read Superman?”

“I’m very pop culture savvy now.”

“Is that what you do in between road trips and monster hunts? You read vintage comics?”

The question seemed to puzzle him. “Why would I do that? I already know what happens.”

“Wait, so you haven’t… did you get a pop culture download, like a robot? Was that the newest software update?”

“I’m not a robot. I didn’t… not exactly… it was Metatron.”

“You did, didn’t you?” Crowley couldn’t resist poking fun at him. “I’ll have to call you Astroboy now. Can’t believe I never thought of it before.”

Castiel didn’t miss a beat. “Does that mean you’re Jump?”

Oh, that was low. “I am _not_ a bloody dog!”

“Well, I don’t have rocket feet, nor am I made of metal.”

“Fine.” Crowley spat the word like venom. His comic book had a bent corner. He straightened it as best he could, then opened it to the first page. “I’m me, you’re you, and we’ll never speak of it again.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, filled only by the rumbling of the engine and the fast-talking advertiser on the radio. Crowley tried, he truly did, but the comic couldn’t hold his attention while the conversation was unfinished. “To be fair, you’ve got the rest. Super strength, magnified hearing, those pretty blue laser eyes, and I assume you can translate any language ever written.”

Castiel kept his eyes on the road ahead, not answering at first. Then, grudgingly, he said, “You forgot the ability to determine whether a person is good or evil. But even with all that, I don’t have a machine gun in my hip. I’m not a robot.”

An indulgent smile played about Crowley’s lips as he returned his attention to his comic. “No, that’s true. You’re more of a Superman.”

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

The construction delays cropped up more often through the rest of Iowa and into Nebraska. With each delay, Crowley calculated approximately how long it would take to get through it, conservatively shaved off some of that time, then raided his palace for spell ingredients and things to keep himself entertained. On a long stretch of I-80, he acquired a mortar and pestle and an Etch-a-Sketch. He had never been much of an artist, but it took very little skill to create a highly unflattering portrait of Castiel.

Somewhere past Lincoln, he picked up two small vials of human blood — freely given — and a bag of peanuts in the shell. Not only did the sound of cracking peanut shells annoy the daylights out of Castiel, but once he was done eating the peanuts, some quick work with a pen turned peanut shells into little finger puppets. If Castiel was annoyed before, he certainly didn’t appreciate it when peanut shell puppets began singing along with the radio; Adele never sounded so good.

[ ](http://imgur.com/5XL7klZ)

Shortly after the shell puppets lost their appeal, the truck passed a sign indicating the town of Hastings to the south. The sign also mentioned that Kansas could be reached via Hastings. Crowley looked over to find Castiel glancing his way. Neither said a word, but both were thinking the same thing. Even if they weren’t trying to track down Lucifer, the Winchesters weren’t holed up in their bunker. The sun rested low on the horizon, setting the sky ablaze with pink and purple and fiery orange. Whatever the Winchesters were hunting, that would likely be the creature’s last sunset. At least it was a good one.

A late night delay between Kearney and Lexington allowed Crowley to ransack his throne room for a pair of candles and Chess eXpress, that wonderfully reliable old digital chess game. There wasn’t another construction delay for hours, but Crowley didn’t care. He quite happily played match after match with the volume turned up, so his game sounds kept interrupting the songs on the radio. For whatever reason, Castiel didn’t say a word about it.

There wasn’t another delay for hours. It wasn’t a good idea to disappear during pit stops — if Castiel were to notice, he could easily leave, and then it would take forever to find him again — so Crowley was stuck. Again. Chess eXpress held his attention for awhile, but one could only play chess against a computer for so long. With a snap of his fingers, he sent the game back where it came from, which was much easier than retrieving it in the first place. He was back where he started, with nothing to do but listen to pop music on the radio. That lasted all of two minutes before he got bored; it was a rare song these days that managed to measure up to the quality of music to which he was accustomed.

With nothing else to do, he talked. He talked about the music industry and how today’s rising stars generally resorted to demon deals to get their big break. That led into talking about the declining quality of music in general, now that so many stars hadn’t truly earned their places. He conceded that there were exceptions to the rule, which led to talking about the few stand out examples. Of course, Castiel hardly participated in the conversation beyond the occasional grunt or “mmhmm,” but that didn’t deter Crowley in the slightest.

The “conversation” had just turned to comparing the lyrics of legitimate artists with those who had bought their way to fame, when they left Breckenridge, Colorado. For once, Crowley wasn’t the one to notice the construction delay first. He was in the middle of an anecdote about Drake’s writing process when Castiel interrupted with, “Finally.” When Crowley didn’t immediately leave, he added, “Isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather be right now?”

Glancing out the windscreen, Crowley grinned. “Oh my, where _does_ the time go? Thanks for the heads up. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

The delay calculations were practically automatic by then, so Crowley teleported to his storeroom, snatched up the ancient coin he’d been saving for last, then visited a handful of other locations to shake possible pursuit. His last stop was at a Starbucks on the outskirts of Toronto, where he purchased Castiel’s usual black coffee with two sugars and a salted caramel mocha frappuccino for himself. At such an early hour of the morning, the line was non-existent and the transaction thankfully brief.

When nothing caught up to him at Starbucks, he teleported back to the Colorado roadside, scanned the traffic for Castiel’s not-quite-vintage wheels, then appeared in the passenger seat. Castiel had grown accustomed to his frequent reappearances, and thus no longer menaced him with a blade upon his return, though there was an aborted hand movement that might have been a decision not to kill him yet. It was an almost comforting thought. Crowley handed over the coffee to Castiel. “Black, two sugars, yes?”

Just as he had at the beginning of their trip, Castiel regarded Crowley with a curious expression. He sniffed his coffee, then, apparently finding it to his satisfaction, took a small sip. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, but... thank you. I find coffee with sugar to have a pleasing configuration of molecules.”

Accepting the thanks with a nod, Crowley then took a sip of his drink. “Now then, I believe I was in the middle of a tale.”

Castiel’s groan was everything he had hoped for.

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

With all of his components assembled, Crowley was impatient, but there hadn’t been another construction delay since Breckenridge. He checked his phone — charging it yet again with a minor expenditure of power — but apparently the entire state of Utah was going to be delay-free. Finally, he had to admit that for once, honesty might actually be the best policy. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to Castiel and said, “I would like to ask permission to ward your vehicle against scrying.”

At least Castiel looked gratifyingly baffled. “Since when do you ask permission to do anything?”

Opening foray made, it was time for the important part. “Since I have no desire to have you stab or smite me and leave me by the wayside. I know better than to muck about with something that’s yours without permission. Thing is, I’d be very surprised if there weren’t at least a few of Lucifer’s minions trying to track us down by now. His former vessel and his favourite plaything: we’d be perfect for demons hoping to curry favour.”

Without batting an eye, Castiel said, “Let them come. I don’t imagine a handful of demons would be more than a minor annoyance for either of us.”

Not deterred, Crowley continued, “Of course, you’re a god amongst men and all that, but we’re headed into a densely populated area. Last I recall, you were particular about not wanting innocents to suffer. Demons in the employ of the Morningstar aren’t particularly concerned with the sanctity of human life.”

Castiel retorted, “And you are?”

With a small shrug, Crowley said, “I’ll grant you that, the mortals who concern me can be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. No, my concern is for my own tender hide. Better to be safe than sorry. But you, I thought, might actually care about the welfare of the people in our general vicinity.”

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep components for complicated rituals on hand.”

“My… expeditions haven’t been entirely for the purpose of procuring entertainment, though they were certainly for that as well.” Crowley withdrew a candle from his jacket pocket and twiddled it between his fingers. “I have everything I need already gathered. Everything, that is, except for your permission.”

The silence stretched between them long enough for Crowley to pick out the lyrics of the song on the radio.

_I really really really really really really like you_  
_And I want you, do you want me, do you want me, too?_  
_I really really really really really really like you_  
_And I want you, do you want me, do you want me, too?_

Mentally, he thanked Miss Jepsen for proving his point from the conversation outside Breckenridge. There was a definite scarcity of songs with good lyrics these days.

Just as Crowley had decided that the honest approach had failed, Castiel grumbled, “Fine. But I’ll know if you decide to cast something different.”

“Of course you’ll know,” Crowley scoffed. “Like I said, Superman. We’re on the same side though. I’m Team Castiel, even if _you’re_ not Team Crowley.”

“Is _anyone_ Team Crowley?”

“I am, which is why I’m doing this in the first place. So, the next podunk fuel station we stop at, pull around back so we’re not being watched.”

Castiel made no reply, but at least he made no objection either.


	5. Doing My Own Little Thing

Their next fuel stop was no Gas n Sip, but they couldn’t afford to be choosy. The stretch of road they were travelling had very few gas stations, carefully spaced out. In fact, everything seemed to be scarce along that stretch of road. There were mountains and hills and fields of wind turbines, but actual human settlement was definitely on the small scale. Crowley resorted to playing mindless games on his phone out of sheer boredom, pocketing it immediately when Castiel pulled off the interstate to refuel.

The fuel pumps looked as if they were at least a few decades old, which would make them newer than the building behind them. There were some things that were iconic of the Midwest, and rundown gas stations happened to be one of them. Given the relative scarcity of gas stations along that stretch, and the sheer distance traveled by the Winchesters, Crowley could virtually guarantee that one or both of them had stopped at that particular gas station more than once.

Castiel pulled up to the fuel pump and opened his door, pausing with the door open. “There’s nobody behind the building. I’ll bring the truck around back once we’re done here.”

It was almost routine at that point for Castiel to take care of refueling and disposing of coffee cups while Crowley procured snacks and paid for it all. He spared half a thought to wonder how the self-righteous angel would have paid for the trip if he were still alone. Probably with funds provided by the Winchesters, and nevermind the illegal methods used to “earn” them. Angelic ethics had some odd blind spots.

Setting the thought aside for later, Crowley entered the gas station and gathered the usual supplies: pretzels, coffee with two sugars, and the local newspaper. On his way to the register, he spotted a display holding various music CDs. The most recent pop music station had begun to grow staticky and would likely be inaudible soon enough. If there was anything decent for sale, it might save him from hours of silence.

Digging through the bin, Crowley uncovered various compilation CDs, mostly country and adult contemporary. Finding a Shania Twain CD gave him a good chuckle and he almost bought it, just to see the look on Castiel’s face, but he was trying to get on Agent Beyoncé’s good side. But then, as if it had been summoned by his thoughts, he found it, the paper insert only slightly faded due to the years it had been sitting there. He didn’t even hesitate before adding it to his purchases.

By the time he reached the back of the building, Castiel had just removed the keys from the ignition. Handing over the coffee, Crowley rifled through the bag until he came up with the CD. As he was offering it, he explained, “There’s a scarcity of pop stations in the area. As that would likely mean an unacceptably long and boring silence…”

Watching Castiel’s brow unfurrow would have been answer enough, but the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly when he read the back of the case, which, for Castiel was practically a smile. “You bought this just so you won’t be bored?”

Crowley gave a nonchalant shrug. “Of course. Why else? Not like I care one whit about the songs you seem to actually enjoy.”

A _hmpf_ sound in response was Crowley’s thanks. No matter, there were more important things he needed to deal with. He reached through the open window to place his purchases on the seat, then teleported into the bed of the pickup truck. “I’ll take care of the ritual back here, and if you don’t mind, perhaps you might see about putting up some warding sigils in the cab? We can’t exactly ward against angels or demons specifically, but I’m sure you’ve got some generic protection sigils rattling around in your noggin.”

There was a moment of hesitation, as if Castiel were unwilling to concede even that much, but then he frowned and said, “I can prevent us from being scried on, and I should be able to ward the vehicle from being tampered with. I never considered it before since I’m personally warded against angelic scrying, but I suppose if anyone knew what vehicle I was driving, I could be found that way.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows for a pointed moment. “You think? The old you would’ve had this thing warded inside and out ages ago. Of course, you wouldn’t have needed this old thing back then. That was back when Superman could fly.”

There was, of course, no response. Castiel took a permanent marker from his coat pocket, uncapped it, and was about to draw on the inside of the door when Crowley interrupted him. “If you want to be inconspicuous, Agent Beyoncé, you might want to keep your artwork hidden. Inside the glove box, behind the seats, under the dashboard, and so on.”

Grumbling, Castiel got in and closed the door behind him. Not long after, the radio came on, quickly replaced by the CD Crowley had purchased. Crowley smiled to himself and got to work retrieving his spell components from the safe storage lockup where they were hidden. It was easy to grab things from a distance if he knew exactly where they were.

With Castiel distracted, it was a race against time to get everything done. Painting the sigils in blood on the bed of the truck was easily done, and he lit the candles with hardly a thought. Then came the incantation, which he spoke as softly as he could get away with. On the final repetition, he took the coin from his coat pocket and focused his will upon its surface. With the last word, the coin glowed faintly to his sight, then faded until it was no more remarkable than before he had started.

[ ](http://imgur.com/1SWH1HD)

Less than a minute after the spell concluded, Castiel poked his head out the window. “I felt your spell finish, but the truck still isn’t warded. What happened?”

Crowley schooled his features into a confident expression — if one wanted to sell the truth, one must believe it himself — and waved off Castiel’s concerns. “I had planned to cast it twice. I cast the first on an object I’ll be keeping on my person. Warding your ‘80s relic does us no good if I can be traced and scried the moment I leave the vehicle. Carry on, I’ll only need a little longer here.”

Castiel squinted at Crowley, studying him for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes and returned to drawing warding sigils. Though it was entirely unnecessary, he also turned up the music. It was petty and it made it difficult for Crowley to concentrate on the incantation, but he didn’t have three centuries of experience for nothing.

It wasn’t long before the truck began to glow softly, then faded again, just like the coin had. While the light was still fading, Crowley crushed his dried herbs with the mortar and pestle, then drizzled in the second vial of blood. He dropped the coin into the blood and herbs and immediately began a new incantation, again muttering the words as softly as practicality allowed.

The last syllable fell from his lips and the coin grew warm, steam rising from the mingled blood and herbs wafted the coppery smell to his nostrils. He called the coin to his hand and quickly banished the evidence of his spellcasting. All that remained were the candles, the bloody sigil on the truck, and the coin in his hand, which he wiped clean with his pocket square, then tucked away in his pocket. Evidence dealt with, Crowley sat down in an unbloodied corner, leaned back against the truck, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Again, Castiel leaned out the window to investigate. When he didn’t immediately see Crowley, he got out of the truck. “Dammit Crowley, what’s taking so long? You finished the spell awhile ago, I felt it. We should be back on the road by now.”

Once Castiel reached a spot where he could see, Crowley flashed a weak smile. “Just taking a little breather before I deal with this.” He indicated the blood with an open hand. “Trying to decide whether to send it somewhere or incinerate it.”

Castiel regarded Crowley with slightly more squinty suspicion than usual. Crowley might have been worried, but the enchantment on the coin rendered any new spell cast upon it undetectable. Whatever Castiel might have suspected, there was no proof of anything, so Crowley was able to keep his cool throughout the intense staring match that ensued. Finally, Castiel shook his head and sighed. “Send it somewhere. The smell of burnt blood that was involved in a ritual would leave a residue here that could be traced.”

Using the sidewall of the truck for support, Crowley pulled himself to his feet. He brushed the dirt from his coat and tugged on his suit jacket to straighten it. Sufficiently composed, he gathered the blood into a single puddle with a sweeping gesture, then sent it away with a flick of his hand. “Before you ask, I sent it to my hellhound. She deserves a little treat now and again.”

Without a word, Castiel gave the pair of candles a pointed glance, then raised his eyebrows in a blatant inquiry. Rolling his eyes, Crowley called the candles to his hand, then tossed them back into storage. “I was getting there. How about you? Warding done?”

“It’s been done for a while,” Castiel replied, turning swiftly back to the driver’s side door. “Come on, we need to get going.”

With a little sideways nod of acknowledgement, Crowley teleported into the passenger seat. He was about to dig out his bag of pretzels when he recognized the song that was playing. “Why on earth are you listening to disc one?” Before Castiel could answer, Crowley cut him off. “Yes, yes, I know, ‘Halo’. Honestly, I’m not sure why I asked.”

The CD case was on the middle of the bench seat between them. Crowley picked it up and opened it to the second disc, aware of the angel’s eyes on him the entire time. It was only when he ejected the disc from the CD player that Castiel said, “I was listening to them in order.”

Crowley replaced disc one with disc two, clicking the former back in its case. “I’m sure we’ll hear them all at least a dozen times between here and California. Grant me this much, at least?”

Frowning again, Castiel started the engine. “Fine. All of disc two, then disc one from the start again.”

The first song on disc two began to play as they pulled out of the gas station and back onto the interstate.

_All the single ladies, (all the single ladies)_  
_All the single ladies, (all the single ladies)_  
_All the single ladies, (all the single ladies)_  
_All the single ladies Now put your hands up_

Crowley grinned and raised his hands in the air. The little huff that Castiel made was almost a laugh. He could feel the location of the truck through the coin, and if he concentrated, he could hear the song in stereo. Everything was going according to plan. Resisting the urge to touch the coin in his pocket, Crowley grooved along with the song.

[ ](http://imgur.com/v5aMBOF)


	6. Back On The Track

By the time they reached the Utah-Arizona border, both discs had been played five times each. Crowley could, and did, sing along with every song because there was nothing else to do. For awhile, he had been content to read the newspaper he had purchased, but there was only so long that could last. The comics were mildly entertaining and it was good to see how his stocks were doing, but there was nothing much else terribly enlightening in there, much less any hint of anything from Lucifer. He should probably have been grateful for the respite.

Crowley was bored. Yes, the scenery was lovely — there were rocky hills, fields of tough, short grass, and flowers that had no business thriving where they did — but he had seen it all before, and one could only appreciate for so long. It might have been easier if he were the one driving, but he had asked already and had been shot down. Of course, after the whole Lucifer thing, he could understand Castiel wanting complete control over his surroundings, but that didn’t help Crowley feel less bored.

For perhaps the zillionth time, he shifted in his seat to try to get comfortable. His foot nudged the newspaper, which made a crinkling sound and gave him an idea. Separating out a single sheet of paper, he spread it flat on the dashboard and began to fold it. He made crisp, precise folds and marveled that he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

As he had stopped singing along with the CD, Castiel shot a suspicious glance his way, but it wasn’t until he opened the window that Castiel asked, “What are you doing?”

With a playful smirk, Crowley replied, “Never made a paper airplane before? Let’s see how far it’ll fly.”

Without bothering to listen to Castiel’s protests, Crowley launched his delicate paper airplane out the window. The turbulence proved to be too much for it though, and it was tossed about in the air until it plummeted down to land in a bush. He was about to make another when Castiel said, “Bring it back. You’re littering.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley sighed, “Fine.” Though the truck had driven past the paper airplane crash site, he was just barely able to make out where it had landed. It was hardly an effort at all to call the tattered bit of newsprint back to his hand, where he crumpled it and tossed it in the rubbish bag. Having dealt with that, he set about making another. He planned to test as many design possibilities as he could before he ran out of paper.

When he ran out of newspaper, he started dismantling the _Teen Vogue_ magazine. One cover page could make a good, sturdy paper aircraft, as did the subscription card, but the rest of the pages were just as flimsy as newsprint. There was something about the challenge of trying to make the delicate airplanes survive their flight, and he went through a third of the magazine in an attempt to make the perfect plane. In the end, he cheated a little to let his plane survive being launched until the wind could buoy it aloft. Success was boring though, and he quickly abandoned the little plane in the rubbish bag with the many failures.

Inspiration struck again, and Crowley fished out the least tattered newspaper airplane from the paper scrap heap. Unfolding and smoothing it out revealed a decent-sized piece of undamaged paper, so he carefully tore away the rest, shaping what remained into a square. Then came the tricky bit; with precise and practiced movements, he creased and folded the paper in an intricate sequence that, in the end, left him with an origami bird. It was still vaguely plane shaped, and it would likely fly if he threw it, but it was also still small and delicate.

With the swish of his finger and the barest fraction of power, he sent the little bird-plane soaring through the air. It flew up near the ceiling of the truck’s cab, flying laps and performing the occasional tiny loop for his amusement.

Castiel didn’t utter a single word of complaint, but his bright blue eyes kept darting to the paper bird, dividing his attention between it and the road. His frequent glances melted his expression into pathetically mournful longing. That was when Crowley remembered something that he had intellectually known, but had forgotten: Castiel’s wings were ruined.

[ ](http://imgur.com/WpBhg7A)

The little bird-plane landed in Crowley’s hand at his command and he set it on his shoulder to perch. There was nothing he could say to make Castiel’s situation any more tolerable — and a part of him hated that he even cared about that possibility — but among many other things, Crowley was a master of distraction. “Have I ever told you about the time I spent in Mesopotamia? You know, you’re not my first angel. I spent a rather entertaining time there with your dearly departed Naomi.”

As anticipated, Castiel’s expression hardened and he growled, “Crowley…”

Turning wide, guileless eyes toward Castiel, Crowley turned over his hands, palms up. “What? Just trying to pass the time. Though I must say, Naomi had some interesting ideas in that regard. Bit hard to implement while driving though, I would imagine.”

Gritting his teeth, Castiel said, “Shut. Up. Crowley.”

With some of the best timing of the entire journey, a purple, red, and yellow sign came into view, with a black and white prospector proclaiming, “Welcome to Nevada”. Crowley unnecessarily pointed it out. “Oh look, Nevada. Once we’re through this one, it’s on to sunny California and more than ten minutes at a time on solid ground in the company of potentially intelligent humans, who might _actually_ be able to give us the information we need.”

Castiel, in what had become a common occurrence, inhaled slowly and exhaled even more slowly. “Eight and a half hours of driving, plus however many stops for gas we’ll need.” He glanced at the instrument panel. “And we’ll need one soon.”

Smiling to himself, Crowley indicated a Gas n Sip sign just over the horizon with his thumb. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

With Castiel manning the pump as per usual, Crowley sauntered into the mini mart to see what delights could be found at what was undoubtedly Nevada’s finest Gas n Sip. He couldn’t say he was disappointed, exactly, when it met his expectations. When he left the store, he held one black coffee with two sugars, one bag of sea salt potato chips, and one pocket-sized plastic solitaire game. What he didn’t have was a new music CD. Apparently the town was essentially a giant retirement community, none of whom held any interest in pop music. The cashier was able to give him some radio station suggestions, but they would be a hard sell.

Teleporting into his seat in the truck, Crowley had mere moments before Castiel joined him. Coffee in one hand, he dropped the rest of his purchases on the seat beside him, called the bespelled coin to his hand, and dropped it behind the seat beside the mutilated October edition of _Teen Vogue_. Then, plastering an amiable smile on his face, he offered up the coffee in his hand as the door opened. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”

Scowling, Castiel got in, slammed the door, and took the coffee from him. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

While Castiel sniffed his coffee, started the engine, and shifted into drive, Crowley ejected the current CD and put it back in its case. “I know, darling. Everyone and their mother knows your heart belongs to someone else. Well, _nearly_ everyone. For such an intuitive fellow, he can be rather _dense_ , can’t he?”

The truck pulled back onto the interstate, with Castiel’s suddenly tense expression the only hint that the words had struck their mark. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With Castiel ever so briefly distracted, Crowley turned the dial for the radio and pressed the button to tell it to scan for stations. “Keep telling yourself that, love.”

The radio played a moment of country music before Crowley pressed the button again. It was only a few words, but it was enough to make Castiel aware of the situation. He glanced down at the radio, then at the CD case in Crowley’s hands. “What’re you doing?”

When the radio stopped scanning again, a woman’s voice was in the middle of speaking. “— Air1 positive hits and next up is ‘Love With Your Life’ by Hollyn.”

Crowley mashed the button again. “Bloody Christian Contemporary.” He sighed and continued, “Trying to find a decent radio station. Don’t get me wrong, I love Queen Bey as much as the next guy, but I think a little change is in order, just for a little while.”

The tuner stopped, unleashing electric guitar mid-song. With his finger poised to hit the button again, Crowley froze.

_‘Cause I’m back on the track_  
_And I’m beatin’ the flack_  
_Nobody’s gonna get me on another rap_  
_So look at me now_  
_I’m just makin’ my play_  
_Don’t try to push your luck, just get out of my way_

He shook off the song and was about to hit the button again, but Castiel interrupted him. “This one’s alright. Leave it there.”

Frowning, Crowley crossed his arms and regarded Castiel with a measure of scrutiny. “I was under the impression that this wasn’t your usual style.”

As he drove, Castiel stared impassively at the road — a little too impassively. “It’s okay. I mean, it’ll do until we’re within range of something better.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth lifted in a smirk. “Funny, because I could’ve sworn this was _exactly_ the sort of music I’d expect to hear in the tape deck of Squirrel’s gas guzzling relic. Honestly, love, I expected better of you.”

The look of disgust Castiel gave Crowley was entirely worth it. Brian Johnson sang like the damned souls on the rack in Hell, and though the sound gave him no real pleasure there, it was somewhat nostalgic. In a carefully guarded corner of his mind, Crowley was able to admit that the angel wasn’t the only one who missed riding in that other vehicle.

For a couple of minutes, both were content to let the song fill the silence between them. When it ended, Crowley couldn’t resist asking, “So, our route is going to take us right through Las Vegas. At our current speed, we’re going to reach California _far_ too late to meet with anyone until tomorrow. We could stop for just a few hours.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Castiel replied, “No.”

“An hour then,” Crowley persisted. “We hit the slot machines, play a card game or two, then we’re back on the road with our pockets full of our winnings to fund the rest of our journey. Hardly a speed bump, in the grand scheme of things.”

Castiel took a long sip of his coffee, then said, “We’re not stopping, Crowley. Not in Las Vegas, not anywhere but a gas station until we reach San Diego.”

Of course not, and that was no more than Crowley had expected. The mid-afternoon sun shone brightly through the window, and if either of them had been human, they would have been half-dead from the heat. As it was, Crowley felt more comfortable than he had in ages. With an exaggerated sigh, he leaned back in his seat and opened his bag of sea salt potato chips while Robert Plant sang between extended instrumental solos. The chips were honestly just a buffer between him and the pure salt, which melted on his tongue in an exquisite symphony of pleasure and pain.

Closing his eyes, Crowley savoured the sensations dancing on his tongue while the rest of the song played. Once upon a time, he had done the same thing while in the Impala with a demonic Dean Winchester. Nostalgic was definitely the word for the radio station.

By the time they hit the outskirts of Las Vegas, the chips were gone and the radio station didn’t feel quite so nostalgic anymore. The scenery was duller than dull, and nothing he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t even night time, and so without the lights, Vegas was a disappointment. Unfortunately it was also time for road construction, which meant delays. Since Crowley had revealed the purpose of his earlier excursions, it would have seemed shady if he were to continue them; he couldn’t afford to raise suspicions, and so he stayed in his seat.

Staying put, however, proved difficult. The machines outside were loud, the truck’s engine was loud, and even at a low volume, the music felt loud. It didn’t help that every last inch of the truck’s interior was imbued with the scents of its former owner. Crowley opened up his new Solitaire game. It was, of course, a game he had played before, and one he could beat easily, but something was better than nothing. However, with the sounds outside and the smells inside, he couldn’t concentrate. Something had to change.

Crowley pressed the button to scan for a new station. The machines outside rumbled and grated, the sounds of steel on tarmac breaking up chunks of road to expose the dirt beneath. Dusty dirt and broken tarmac wafted through the truck’s ventilation system, adding to the cocktail of smells. The dial landed on some talk radio nonsense with a host who had the most unfortunately droning voice. As soon as possible, Crowley pressed the button again, at which point Castiel said, “Either change it back to classic rock, find a news station, or put the CD back in.”

When the dial stopped again, it gave them a news station in the middle of the weather report. Eyebrows raised, Crowley spread his arms wide and lowered his head as if in benediction. “Ask and thou shalt receive.”

Of course, Castiel was unimpressed with that — Castiel was unimpressed with practically everything — but as he didn’t bother to respond, Crowley dropped his hands to his sides and let his head fall back with a sigh. The news report was hardly any better than the talk radio, but at least it was something to focus on.

There was the usual blather about local crime and the one little ray of sunshine fluff piece about a small child attempting to make a difference in their corner of the world. All petty things, really. Then the entertainment news came on and Crowley sat up a little straighter. Movie reviews, celebrity scandals — nothing to indicate potential Lucifer activity, but moderately entertaining. Then it happened. “Get ready for one last outing with the Girls. HBO on Thursday announced that the sixth and final season of its Lena Dunham-led comedy will premiere on Sunday, Feb. 12 at 10/9c.”

Crowley’s eyes unfocused as his thoughts briefly ran down all the possible plot trails he could imagine that might sum up a final season. There was no point — either the show would surprise and entertain him or it would be a last minute disappointment — but it was fun to speculate. When he finally looked up at Castiel, he realized, “I saw you in there, in your head. _You_ are a TV junkie. Moose was a giant letdown — never once saw any of the good stuff on HBO — but you… Tell me you’ve seen _Girls_.”

The traffic outside moved ever so slowly as they crept through the construction zone, so Castiel was able to properly turn his head and look Crowley in the eyes. “You’re not joking, you actually want to know.”

With a flick of his fingers, Crowley turned the radio off. “Of course I want to know. We’re stuck here with nothing to do and little to discuss, and we have far too many hours still to go. Humour me. Did you ever manage to catch an episode of _Girls_?”

“No, the Winchesters don’t get HBO.”

“ _That_ is an absolute _sin_ , and one that I intend to remedy just as soon as this mess is all dealt with. So, if you weren’t watching HBO, then what _were_ you fixated on?”

The cars began to move again, returning Castiel’s eyes to the road. He stared ahead as he spoke. “A great many things. Daytime talk shows, entertaining videos of small animals… I did also watch several seasons of _Orange is the New Black_ , though I’m still no closer to figuring out why it’s called that.”

“You get a whole pop culture download, and you still don’t understand idioms? Bloody hell, Cassie, the title comes from the book of the same name and it’s an expression based on the whole fashion industry thing where the next hot new thing is the ‘new black’. More importantly, who was your favourite character and how far did you watch?”

It was almost possible to see the gears turning in Castiel’s head as he replied, “There were three seasons available at the time, so I watched them all. I don’t think I could choose a favourite character. They’re all trying to do their best with what they have, when the world has already assumed they’ve done their worst.”

“Exactly! I wasn’t sure you’d understand, but you’ve got it. I’m rather partial to Red, personally, but they all have wonderfully compelling tales. I’m curious, what do you think happens next?”

The noises of the construction site faded into the background where they were joined by the many varied smells and all the other agitating things in Crowley’s life. When they cleared the delay twenty minutes later, he was still explaining aspects of the show that Castiel had misunderstood. It should have been frustrating, but somehow it wasn’t.


	7. A Kind Of Magic

Some time after the Vegas delay, Castiel ran out of words, or at least that’s how it seemed. Crowley went right on talking, but Castiel no longer had anything to contribute. No matter: Crowley had no problem filling the silence.

After exhausting the possibilities of _Orange is the New Black_ , he talked about the best shows on Netflix, offering up options he thought Castiel might enjoy watching. That led into the best shows on HBO and why an HBO subscription would improve not only Castiel’s quality of life, but that of the Winchesters as well. Crossing the border into California, the flowers on the welcome sign made him think of a movie, which then led to talking about the best movies he had seen and the various scandals involving the actors.

Stops for snacks and fuel only briefly interrupted the flow of words. Once both were back in the truck, Crowley resumed where he left off. Sure, Castiel occasionally told him to shut up, but he couldn’t possibly have meant it. It was said with no passion, no venom, almost as if it were habitual. Crowley nodded and kept talking.

Somewhere around Afton, Crowley glanced at the clock on the stereo system, which read 6:37 pm. He then double-checked on his phone, which cheerfully displayed 3:37 pm. Of course they had crossed through two other time zones before ending up in their current Pacific Standard Time without bothering to adjust the truck’s clock. At the rate of speed they had been travelling, there were approximately four hours left in their journey, which would still put their arrival time too late for a meeting.

Pulling up the number from his recent calls, Crowley rang his contact at the Florida branch of the Scripps Institute. She confirmed that the California branch was expecting them and gave him their number so he could set up a time. A quick call to the California branch had them all set for an 11:30 am meeting, after the morning’s tours were complete, with plans to order lunch while they talked. Crowley assured the young researcher that he would gladly pay for lunch as compensation for taking up valuable time, which seemed more than satisfactory if the lad’s tone was anything to go by.

When he hung up, Castiel said, “Why so late tomorrow when we’re just going to be waiting?”

“Because scientists are busy people just like the rest of the world who don’t have their heads screwed on quite right until after the first few cups of coffee,” replied Crowley. “And also because they already have someone coming in for a 9 am meeting, and they take tours through the place at 10. I felt it best to plan for some modicum of privacy for when we’re asking about the possible location of _the_ literal devil.” He flashed a smug smile, then continued, “And of course we’ll be spending the night in a hotel for a change, and I’d like to take full advantage of _all_ of the amenities before we’re forced to get back to business again.”

Frowning, Castiel tilted his head slightly. “But shouldn’t we be spending the night researching if we have that much time?”

“You’re welcome to spend the evening as you choose,” said Crowley. “I know your vessel is impervious to such trivialities as stiff, sore muscles due to entirely too many hours in this vehicle, but some of us are not so fortunate. I would very much like to spend a few hours immersed in piping hot water until I have melted into a puddle of bliss.”

“No one made you ride with me. You could’ve teleported there.”

“But then _who_ would have kept you company? I wouldn’t abandon you like that. I’m not that kind of girl.”

“That’s not —”

“Not how it would have gone when we first met, no. But we’re more than that now, Cassie boy. We’re partners. Oh, talking of which, when do I get my badge?”

Castiel frowned again. “What badge?”

Plastering on an earnest expression — just in case Castiel decided to glance over — Crowley replied, “My FBI badge to go with yours for the next time we need that cover, of course. If we’re going to be chasing Lucifer once he drags himself out of the Pacific ocean, we’ll _undoubtedly_ be following a trail of bodies again. Our research into his vessels should help with that somewhat, but we’ll still need to go knocking on doors, in which case I’ll be needing a badge.”

Hesitating a moment, Castiel sighed. “Fine. I’ll make it tonight at the motel.”

“Hotel,” Crowley corrected. “There’s no way I’m staying in anything that doesn’t have a whirlpool tub. Just because Moose and Squirrel choose to live like vagabonds, doesn’t mean everyone has to. I’ve grown accustomed to a certain standard of living and I see no reason to compromise on that just because we have work to do.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel shook his head. “Whatever, a hotel then. I don’t care, but if you do, you should start looking to see if you can find one that has a room available.”

Tapping his phone, Crowley started with the website for his hotel of choice. “Already on it.”

The wonderfully luxurious hotel-slash-spa that he preferred to frequent was booked for the night, but he was able to book a room at a four-star hotel relatively close to their destination. Rather than trust to the website, he called the hotel and was assured that he could indeed reserve a room for the night and that it most definitely had a hot tub next to a large heated pool. With a contented smile, Crowley booked a luxury suite for two. He then spent nearly half an hour daydreaming about water hot enough to dissolve the knots in his shoulders.

After awhile, the silence grew oppressive again. Crowley wasn’t quite ready to entrust his sanity for the next few hours to the radio gods, so he left it off. A quick assessment of his current possessions revealed nothing he wasn’t already bored with, but the glove box had somehow escaped his scrutiny; perhaps because he hadn’t been given permission to rifle through it, but that had never stopped him before.

Leaning forward casually, Crowley angled his body to face away from Castiel, his left forearm resting on the dash, his right leg bent at the knee and up on the seat. He then carefully used his demonic power to ease the glove box open almost silently to reveal the contents, which were surprisingly mundane. A road map — presumably of the United States — sat at the bottom of a small stack of CDs, which in turn were underneath an open pack of cigarettes, what looked like the truck’s insurance and registration papers, and a handful of wrapped hard candies. With a grin, Crowley unwrapped a candy, popped it in his mouth, then picked up the CDs.

He should have known, really. A beat up old pickup truck was practically guaranteed to attract country music. It was all “new” country, which was practically pop music played on an acoustic guitar. Well, all except for one, which Crowley held onto while putting the others back.

When he clicked the glove box shut, Castiel didn’t even glance his way, but all the same he said, “You’re not putting on more country.”

Crowley opened the case, removed the disc, and slid it into the truck’s CD player. “I swear, no country. This is quality music.”

The opening music consisted of nothing more than finger snaps to keep the rhythm, so when it opened up into soft keyboard sounds and a light brush on the drums, it only served to highlight the late, great Freddie Mercury’s glorious voice. The additions of the bass guitar and the kick drum accentuated the powerful vocals, supporting from below as they should. Crowley had opinions on music, and the 80s definitely had its share of problems, but Queen always got a pass.

Halfway through the song, Crowley came to the belated realization that it hadn’t been shut off, which, in retrospect, was rather obvious. He was left to wonder why, and whether he might have perhaps found another sort of music to appeal to Castiel. With a mental shrug, he sang along with the next verse.

_Is this a kind of magic_  
_There can be only one_  
_This rage that lasts a thousand years_  
_Will soon be done_

It was too good to last, so of course Castiel interrupted him. “The song is from the movie _Highlander_ , from 1986. It was in the end credits.”

With a wistful sigh — singing along with Queen songs was a visceral joy — Crowley fell back against his seat. “Pop culture download again, hm? I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the actual film?”

Again, the angel managed to look like a robot accessing his internal programming. “I haven’t seen the film myself, but Metatron seemed to think it was about a Scottish man who became immortal and who had to battle other immortal humans for supremacy. There was also a love story of sorts.” 

Unable and unwilling to prevent himself from sneering, Crowley scoffed. “Metatron?! That jumped up feathered secretary wouldn’t have known a good story if it bit him in the arse. The love story was _everything_ in _Highlander_. Connor lost his first love to old age. All he wanted was to be mortal so he could grow old and die to be with his beloved.”

Castiel glanced over at him without turning. “Of course that’s something you’d have no interest in.”

“Of course not. It’s not a relatable story _at all_. Just a catchy soundtrack and delicious eye candy.”

Nodding slowly, Castiel made no reply, but it was somewhat disconcerting to see that look on his face, eyebrows canted with false sympathy. It was almost the same look he had made outside Wendy Vincente’s house whilst talking about Crowley’s mother. Crowley held his head a little higher and turned to look out the window. The scenery left much to be desired — only sand, rocks, scrub grass, and stunted desert trees — but it was better than the alternative. On the bright side, the CD continued to play, the final notes of “A Kind of Magic” fading away to be replaced by _a cappella_ voices harmonizing the beginning of “Bohemian Rhapsody”. Crowley settled back in his seat to enjoy the music for a change.


	8. Hotel California

Music filled the silence between angel and demon for more than an hour until the CD restarted, at which point Castiel toggled back to radio once more. It took entirely too much searching to find a station that wasn’t country, Christian rock, or gospel. There were several Spanish stations that sounded catchy, but Castiel skipped over them until he found a news station. When Crowley tried to protest that it was all the same news they’d heard earlier, Castiel said, “It’s up to the minute news coverage. If something new happens, we’ll know. We’re almost there, so we should stay informed.”

There was, of course, no use arguing, so Crowley didn’t bother. Instead, he began to put his own spin on the news stories, once identifying the stories he had heard earlier. “A local hoodlum isn’t feeling loved or appreciated, so he spray painted a giant willy on the side of his friendly neighborhood Biggerson’s. Police have no leads but witnesses say it was a real dick move. In other news, a small child with cartoonishly large eyes used her parents’ money to buy lemonade, then sold it by the glass at a 500% markup, which would have been remarkable if she hadn’t given it all away to the local sob story animal shelter. The puppies and kittens have yet to say thank you.”

It was hardly a surprise when Castiel growled, “Crowley… shut up.”

In turn, Crowley flashed a smug smile and said, “Happy to, once they start reporting something new. Don’t worry, I promise not to interrupt anything we haven’t heard yet. And now the weather. Despite attempts to extinguish the sun earlier this year, today will be a bright and sunny day in California. Slather on some sunscreen and spend the afternoon by the poolside because it’s gonna be a hot one. For the long term forecast, it’s a whole lot more of the same because humanity has royally fucked this planet. There’s a possible cold front on the horizon though, depending on which way Lucifer decides to go. We’ll be sure to keep you posted on anything new as that develops.”

The irritation left Castiel’s mostly-inscrutable face and his shoulders slumped. “What if we can’t stop him in time? There are millions of people in California alone, and we have no idea what he’s planning. And if we do find him, we have no way to get him out of his vessel so Rowena can send him back to the Cage.”

Nothing about that was anything new. They had been facing the same issues since they had first decided to exact their revenge. It was the first either of them had mentioned it though. Crowley shrugged. “Isn’t that what God’s new favourites are for? They’ve got that whole secret lair full of lore. Why not have them see what they can dig up?”

Castiel shook his head. “Dean said they went through everything they had when…”

“When Lucifer wore you to the ball, yes?”

“Yes, that. I gather that time you were in my head was their ‘Hail Mary’ play.”

The air quotes were audible and it was only due to several lifetimes of practice that he didn’t laugh. “If you must know, I have my R&D department working on a spell to eject an angel from its vessel. Like a banishing sigil, but doesn’t launch you like a torpedo. Nothing personal, of course. Strictly for use on Lucifer.”

“That…could work. So, if your people can manage that, we just need to find him.”

He maintained his confident expression for Castiel’s benefit. There was so much more that needed to be done once they found Lucifer, but what Castiel didn’t know couldn’t come back to bite Crowley in his utterly perfect arse. “Precisely. Now, if you’re quite done, I believe we were listening to the news.”

“Yes, of course.”

As he had anticipated, the news was mostly the same as the broadcast from earlier that day. Crowley waited less than a minute before interrupting it again. “And in sports news there was a magnificent game of sportsball last night, wherein both teams tried valiantly to score points. Neither team was sportsing at their best, but a minor injury provided some mid-game entertainment. The final score was a disappointment to a good half of the viewers at home.”

Castiel groaned. “Must you?”

“I do believe I must. You have my word, I swear not to talk over anything new, but this? This is old news.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel let the matter drop. Inwardly, Crowley vowed to spend the rest of the trip trying to make the Angel of Thursday crack a smile.

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

The Angel of Thursday did not, in fact, crack a smile. Crowley spent the final hour and a half of their travels entertaining himself with ridiculous mockery of the radio broadcast, but the closest he got to amusing Castiel was slightly crinkled eyes and the barest twitch at the corners of his mouth. Of course, for Castiel that was practically a smile, so Crowley counted it as a win.

Pulling up to the hotel, Crowley abruptly realized that neither of them had any luggage and that it might look strange if two adult men were to check in with nothing. He slung an arm over the back of the seat, casually called his enchanted coin to his hand, then said, “Hold on, be right back.”

It was a quick hop over to his storeroom to snatch a laptop bag and a briefcase. For good measure, he had one of his suits pack itself appropriately in a garment bag. Then, despite the coin in his pocket preventing detection, he teleported to four other countries before returning to the passenger seat of Castiel’s unfortunate choice of vehicle. If asked, he would never admit to the relief he felt at finding both vehicle and driver exactly where he had left them.

The first thing he did was to snap his fingers and direct all of his many varied entertainments — his Etch-a-Sketch, the pocket solitaire game, half of a mangled _Teen Vogue_ , and _Superman #206_ — to pack themselves in his briefcase. The tiny paper bird sat in his pocket because it amused him to have it there. He then set the briefcase on the seat beside Castiel and said, “Here. So you don’t look suspicious walking into a hotel empty-handed.”

Castiel glanced at the briefcase skeptically. “Uh huh… Can I drive over to the front now, so that man who’s waiting there can park the truck? He keeps looking over here, and I think he might be worried we’re going to do something unsavoury.”

After spending the entire trip stuffed under the seat, the laptop was finally packed away properly in Crowley’s laptop bag. “Don’t worry, he’s just prejudiced against your rust bucket for looking like a rust bucket. Go on then, let’s not keep the poor valet waiting any longer.”

The valet hesitated before accepting the keys. Crowley was just glad that the attendant at the front desk was out of view and would be unable to judge them. As it was, when they approached her desk, her eyes darted to their conspicuous deficit of luggage before checking them in and handing over a pair of key cards. Though Crowley was the one who had spoken to her, it was to Castiel she smiled and said, “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here to help.”

Of course she would go and flirt with the one being on the planet who was entirely oblivious. Before Castiel could go and say something awkward, Crowley said, “We’re fine, thanks, but what time does the pool close?”

Visibly reclaiming her professional veneer, the attendant replied, “The pool closes at ten pm and will reopen tomorrow morning at six. Is there anything else?” When Crowley replied in the negative, she continued, “Your room is on the eighth floor, room 823. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

With a nod, Crowley strode over to the lift and pressed the button to go up. After a moment’s hesitation, Castiel followed, then stopped beside Crowley and said, “Is it just me, or did she seem a little too helpful?”

There was a ding and the lift doors opened. Crowley walked in, pressed the button for the eighth floor, then replied, “It’s like I’ve always said, you’re too sexy for your own good, Hot Wings.”

The doors closed behind Castiel after he moved to stand opposite Crowley against the wall of the lift. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll handle it,” Castiel replied, somehow entirely serious.

Crowley didn’t even bother to try to stop the flirtatious smirk that was his automatic response. “Of that I have no doubt. I can think of all _sorts_ of things that I’d love to watch you handle.”

As the lift lurched upward, Castiel’s perplexed face was back, complete with head tilt. “Like what?”

With a sigh, Crowley waved it off. “Nevermind. Sex appeal is utterly wasted on you. Dean, on the other hand… now there’s a fellow with a healthy appetite and the willingness to indulge it.”

Castiel frowned and the lift chimed as the doors opened to admit two more passengers. A man and a woman, both in their early twenties, stepped into the space between Castiel and Crowley. The man carried a six pack of beer and the woman was empty-handed, so she leaned over to press the button for the fifth floor. Silence reigned as the lift ascended, nary a word spoken, until the pair disembarked at their destination. As the doors were closing, the woman softly said to her partner, “Awkward.”

The doors closed, the lift continued upward, and still neither spoke, though Castiel stared at Crowley the entire way up. They arrived on the eighth floor without encountering anyone else. Castiel exited the lift, then waited for Crowley to lead the way. Though Crowley would never admit it, having the angel at his back, undoubtedly irritated, made him more than a little nervous. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, following the hallway all the way to the end. Sliding his key card into the reader, he turned the handle, removed his card, and stepped inside.

While it certainly wasn’t the luxury to which he was accustomed, the hotel room was leaps and bounds above the room they had rented while researching back in Ohio. The chair at the desk looked comfortable enough, the bed was easily large enough for three — a feature he would have loved to have tested — and there was a sofa and chair situated opposite a wall-mounted flat screen TV. Without even seeing the rest, Crowley knew he wanted a long, hot shower. He hung up his garment bag in the closet, set his laptop bag on the floor beneath it, then stepped out of his shoes and wiggled his toes. “Now this is more like it.”

Castiel placed the briefcase he carried in the closet, eyed the TV, then picked up Crowley’s laptop bag. “We should see what we can find online while we’re waiting.”

Removing his overcoat and dropping it on the bench at the end of the bed, Crowley sprawled face down across the king-sized bed and closed his eyes. “Knock yourself out. My meatsuit and I are in need of some relaxation therapy.”

Though Crowley couldn’t see Castiel, he could hear the zipper of the laptop bag being opened, the small sound of the computer being unfolded and set on the desk, the slight creak as Castiel sat in the chair. Then came Castiel’s delicious honeyed gravel tones, “Your laptop is password protected.”

The feeling of being horizontal, able to properly stretch, was such a simple pleasure Crowley had forgotten over the previous two days. Without bothering to move, he visualized his laptop and telekinetically typed in his password. “There, should be good now. For the sake of your delightful angelic innocence, don’t click on anything but the internet. Wouldn’t want to have your corruption on my conscience, now would I?”

Castiel’s finger on the touchpad made a soft gliding sound, followed by a light tap. “I wasn’t aware you were in possession of a conscience.”

Reluctantly sitting up, the allure of piping hot water momentarily winning out against the ability to stretch out on and sink into the soft mattress, Crowley scoffed in Castiel's general direction. “Of course I have a conscience. Two, actually. One hunts monsters, was once a demon, and goes by the name of Dean, and the other is an angel named Castiel who has awful taste in music. A pain in my arse, the both of them, but neither seems to have a problem telling me when I’m about to do something morally reprehensible.” 

[ ](http://imgur.com/Cgqd52b)

Typing up his search parameters with some of the fastest two finger typing Crowley had ever seen, Castiel didn’t even bother to look up. “Someone has to.”

Crowley didn’t respond, smiling to himself as he stood. The brief respite had only served to highlight everything that ached, so he wasted no more time in heading to the shower, pausing only to shut off the air conditioning. He stepped into the tiled room and closed the door behind him. With no one to impress, he didn’t bother with the showy gestures, turning the shower faucet all the way to hot by willing it so. Another thought sent his clothing to a hanger in the hall closet. For all that it was nice to have all the power of Hell’s souls at his fingertips, sometimes it was the little things that really made him appreciate his position.

The water was several degrees short of scalding when he stepped into the spray. Pity the hotel had safety measures in place to prevent guests from burning themselves accidentally; Crowley would have preferred hotter, but there was always the jacuzzi for that later. He didn’t bother with the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner or the tiny bar of soap either, instead simply standing under the water with his eyes closed. He soaked up the heat, reptile-like — his mind automatically filling in the cold-blooded joke that Dean would have made — and waited for his muscles to relax. Of course one thought of Dean led to another, so Crowley allowed memory lane to take him back to that summer when they had both left responsibility by the wayside.

A delightful half hour later, Crowley stepped out of the shower feeling rejuvenated. The slightest expenditure of power dried him off, another called his clean clothes to him, and he was dressed in the space of a breath. He didn’t even bother to use his hand to open the door beyond waving it open like the king he was. At heart he was a man of many complicated and diverse pleasures, but he could never resist a little showmanship, even if only for his own amusement.

Two short steps into the sitting room, Crowley called the TV remote to his hand, then flopped down on the sofa. From his chair at the desk across the room, Castiel said, “In the shower, was that necessary? You _know_ I can hear everything you do.”

A smirk tugged at Crowley’s lips and he turned on the TV. “Necessary? No. I’m feeling much better though, thank you.”

He could practically hear Castiel rolling his eyes. While continuing to scroll his finger down the touchpad, he muttered, “You’re unbelievable.”

Clicking through the channels, Crowley smiled to himself. “Love you too, Feathers.”

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

Though Castiel continued to search the internet, and Crowley found a news station to watch, neither found anything of consequence. Vince Vincente had not made a startling reappearance in the two days they had been on the road, neither alive nor dead, and nothing globally catastrophic had been reported. On the bright side, Crowley felt much more relaxed after a couple of hours spent horizontally on the sofa.

When the news cycle ended, Crowley pried himself off the sofa and teleported to stand immediately behind Castiel. “So, I believe you mentioned something about making me a proper FBI badge tonight.”

Of course, Castiel was an angel and as such didn’t startle easily, but that didn’t stop Crowley from trying. Unfortunately, rather than being startled, Castiel merely grumbled, “I would appreciate if you didn’t teleport in here. It leaves an unpleasant odour and housekeeping might ask unwanted questions.”

“I suppose when you put it like that, it’s a reasonable request. Now, about my badge. I was thinking —-”

“I need to take your picture, then you need to decide on the name you’ll be using,” Castiel interrupted, standing and stepping away from the desk.

“As I was saying, I was thinking the tradition is to use the last names of, how to put this…rock stars who have had their day in the sun already? So, how about Agent Clapton?”

“In order to avoid tripping any flags in the FBI’s database, we should avoid using any alias Sam or Dean has used already. Dean used that one in Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

“Sound thinking. What about Agent Page then?”

“Uh, that was mine on the same case.”

“And I’m sure you made a lovely matched set. Agent Crosby?”

“Uh, that was Dean again, in Oklahoma City.”

“Which, I’m guessing means Stills and Nash are off the table as well.” At Castiel’s confirmation, he sighed. “Fine, Agent Geddy? Agent Lee?”

“Dean was Agent Geddy and Sam was Agent Lee when trying to save a town from Samhain on Halloween in the days leading up to the Apocalypse.”

“Right, yes, of course. That was in the _Supernatural_ book series. It’s been awhile, I think I need to give those a reread some time. Well then, how about Agent Zappa?”

Considering briefly, Castiel shook his head. “I don’t believe they’ve ever used Agent Zappa as an alias, at least not to my knowledge.”

Crowley grinned. “Then I suppose it’s mine now.”

“I suppose so. Now, I need a photo of you against a plain white background.”

Glancing around the room, Crowley waved a hand to strip the blankets and sheets from the bed. He then snatched up the pristine white top sheet and flung it against the wall where it spread flat. “That should do.”

Standing in front of the newly-white wall, Crowley smiled warmly, but Castiel shook his head. “No, you can’t smile. Fed ID needs to look serious.”

Crowley adjusted accordingly, allowing his face to slip into the carefully neutral expression usually reserved for negotiating with hostiles. Castiel raised his phone and tapped the screen a few times, then examined the results. Still holding the sheet pinned to the wall, Crowley asked, “So that’s it? We’re done?”

Already modifying the picture on his phone, Castiel replied, “I think so. I just need to find a 24 hour copy shop.”

With a casual gesture, Crowley tossed the sheet back on the bed and had everything put itself back where it belonged. “Wait, copy shop? That’s all there is to it? You’re making our IDs like we’re pathetic teenagers desperate to get into the bar?”

Frowning, Castiel slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. “It works for Sam and Dean. Why don’t you go…sit in the hot tub or something. I’ll take care of this.”

It was after ten, which meant the pool room was locked for the night, making it the perfect time to sneak in and have the hot tub all to himself. Which, of course, would have left Castiel on his own, at which point he might recall how much he preferred to work alone. With a strictly internal sigh, Crowley dredged up a cheerful smile. “And leave you all by yourself? Never. Besides, I want to see how this is done. I’ll make my own fake ID next time. Gotta keep changing up the old alias, right?”

Castiel didn’t even groan. He sighed, slumped his shoulders, and ran a search for the nearest all night copy shop. Crowley inwardly congratulated himself; it was entirely possible to wear down an angel.


	9. And If The Boys Want To Fight, You Better Let 'Em

In the end, it took several hours and two separate copy shops, but Agent Zappa was ready to investigate. When they got back to their room, it was after midnight. By all rights, they should have gone back to researching, but Crowley didn’t even want to consider sifting through the internet in the hopes of finding the barest scraps of nothing. From the looks of Castiel, he felt similarly, but couldn’t justify taking a break.

Crowley knew an opportunity when he saw one. With his new Federal Agent ID tucked away in the inside breast pocket, he hung his overcoat in the closet, then turned to face Castiel, who was eyeing the laptop with reluctance. “You know,” Crowley ventured, “we’ve already worked so hard. You, in particular, haven’t had a break since we started this. We’re going to the research facility tomorrow, we’re going to learn _something_ , so why not take a break? Just for a bit.”

His words certainly had some effect. Castiel looked thoughtful, brow creased and eyes distant, so Crowley carried on. “The new season of _Orange is the New Black_ came out on Netflix back in June. Both of us were too busy to watch it then, but we have at least, hmm, eight hours left before we have to pack up and leave in the morning. Perhaps as much as nine. We could put a serious dent in the season. Come on, whadda ya say?”

Glancing at Crowley’s laptop, Castiel was visibly considering it, then his face fell and his shoulders slumped. “I’d like to, but we shouldn’t. We need to find Lucifer and put a stop to him as soon as possible, before anyone else gets hurt.”

_Bloody self-sacrificing bastard._ Crowley had only intended to try to win the angel over, but the idiot obviously needed a break. “Come on, there’s been no sign of him anywhere. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts, tomorrow we’ll find out he’s making whirlpools with his temper tantrums on the bottom of the Pacific. We’ve checked the news, we’re making no headway on the vessel family tree — not that it’ll do us much good if we ever finish it — we might as well rest up a bit so we can do better tomorrow.”

Castiel sighed and tossed his trenchcoat on the bed. “Maybe you’re right. I am feeling a little overwhelmed by the seeming futility of our task. I guess one or two episodes couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit!” Grinning, Crowley picked up the laptop and set it up on the coffee table so they could both see it from the sofa. He then queued up the first episode of season four. “Well? Come on, take a load off. Unless, of course, you’re planning to listen from the bed without watching?”

Hesitating a moment, Castiel claimed the other side of the sofa. With the trenchcoat off, leaning back into the comfort of the sofa, he looked like he could have been any incredibly attractive businessman. Crowley had to keep reminding himself not to underestimate a being who could erase him from existence in a heartbeat, even if said being had low self-esteem and gorgeous baby blues. With a mental reprimand to himself, Crowley telekinetically clicked the play button so he wouldn’t have to get up.

The opening theme song began to play. Crowley leaned back and rested his head on the back of the sofa. It was no hot tub, but it was definitely worth that loss. As the opening credits played, Castiel leaned forward just a bit and said, “I hope Alex is alright.”

Crowley smiled. There were worse ways to spend the night.

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

One episode led into another, the countdown after each episode never long enough to persuade either of them to stop before the next episode started. After five episodes, sunlight began to peek through the curtains. A bill for their stay was slipped under the door and neither one noticed. After six episodes, voices and footsteps could be heard in the hall outside the room. It was enough to make Crowley notice the time. He quickly calculated that they could squeeze in at least three more episodes, possibly four, depending on whether they wanted to do anything before leaving. Through it all, Castiel was entirely absorbed in the show.

It was almost 10 am when episode nine finished playing. Crowley arched his back and stretched to work out some of the kinks from sitting for too long. Glancing over at the clock on the bedside table, he paused the show just as the next episode began to play. “There’s an hour and a half before we need to be at our appointment. If we watch another, there’s a chance we might get caught in traffic and arrive late.”

Castiel looked up and it took a moment for his eyes to focus on Crowley. “But what’s going to happen to Blanca? That’s an entirely inappropriate way for a guard to behave. If we could just watch one more episode…”

It wasn’t the first time Crowley had seen that look on someone’s face. Come to think of it, it wasn’t even the first time he had seen that look on _Castiel’s_ face. Sighing, he turned off Netflix and amid Castiel’s protests, closed the laptop. “You’re as much an addict as Nicky. Let’s go, distraction addict. We’ll watch the next one later.”

Reluctantly, Castiel stood. “We have an hour and a half before our appointment, and it shouldn’t take more than half an hour to get there. What are we going to do in the meantime?”

After a moment’s consideration, Crowley stood and picked up the laptop. “We’re going to go bring our ‘luggage’ down to breakfast with us, where you’ll enjoy a fresh cup of coffee and I’ll peruse their pastry selections. We’ll find a table with a good view of the television, and we’ll watch the morning news. That counts as research, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, watching the news is research,” replied Castiel. “We should have been researching all night. I _knew_ this was a bad idea.”

Calling the laptop bag to his hands, Crowley stuffed the laptop inside it as he spoke. “Yes, well, I wish you had told me. I could have spent hours soaking away sore muscles, which are now feeling worse, thank you very much. All because I thought it might be nice to spend some time together doing something we both enjoyed. But no, apparently you need Netflix marathon rehab and didn’t feel it worth mentioning when we started. Well, consider yourself cut off until the next time we stop.”

Immediately, Castiel’s expression hardened. “Oh, because you’ve done so much since we started? I’ve done nothing but work while you…slack off! I drove for the past two days and what did you do? You made paper airplanes and sang _karaoke_ and talked non-stop.”

“I could have had us here two days ago if you could let go of your bloody anti-demon prejudice long enough for me to teleport us! _I_ got my news team looking for news of Vince Vincente. _I_ set up the meeting with the oceanographers. _I_ cast the spell to keep demons from scrying on your old Ford banger. _You’re_ just jealous because I’m working smarter, not harder.”

“And who says you can’t do both? You’re a hedonist. You work just hard enough to justify doing nothing whenever you can.”

“And you’re a dog with a bone. Can’t stop until you’re done or dead.”

“At least dogs are loyal. You want to know why I drove instead of trusting you to teleport me? I’m still waiting for you to turn on me.”

“Oh, now that hurts. I have _never_ been the first to break the terms of an agreement. I might have contingency plans in place, sure, but when you break it down, I’ve been nothing but upfront with you. _You’re_ the one who betrayed _me_ , Pumpkin.”

“I can’t believe you. That was almost six years ago and _you_ sided with Raphael, who, I might add, was trying to restart the Apocalypse and destroy everything.”

“I reiterate: you. Betrayed me. First. But even discounting that, I challenge you to come up with one instance in which I made an agreement with you or your pet Winchesters and then broke it. Hell, even a time in which I acted offensively against any of you without provocation. Spoiler alert: you can’t.”

“You’re slimy.” The words practically dripped with disgust. “You’re so careful to cover your own ass, but you don’t give a damn about anyone you work with. No, I can’t come up with anything within your carefully chosen parameters, but you’ve tortured, corrupted, and killed innocent people. If it weren’t for you, Dean would have never had to bear the Mark of Cain, he never would’ve become a demon, the Darkness never would have been released so everyone she killed would still be alive. You taint everything you touch.”

It would have been so easy to fire back — Castiel’s hands were no less bloody than his own — but they needed each other. If they wanted to have any hope of finding and defeating Lucifer, it would take both of them, and probably also the Winchesters, on the same page.

But, unwilling to back down, Crowley took a step forward, sneering, “ _You_ don’t know half of the things I’ve done, and all for the sake of you and your precious Winchesters. You have no idea how biased you are, Blessed Saint Castiel.”

Anything that anyone said beyond that would merely be rehashing the same tired accusations, so rather than risk saying more than he should, Crowley left. He called all of his belongings to his hands and teleported to his favourite dry cleaner’s to have his other suit cleaned, since it smelled of the inside of Castiel’s truck and had been worn for entirely too long. Time was, he could have sent a minion to do that for him. Of course, then he wouldn’t have been on the run from Lucifer’s lickspittle toadies, would have been safely on his throne, and wouldn’t have had a reason to be working with mister tall, dark, and smitey in the first place.

Walking out of the dry cleaner’s, Crowley held a briefcase and a laptop bag. His tiny origami bird was tucked into the front pocket of his jacket along with his FBI badge and the coin he had enchanted. Upon realizing he still had the coin — that it wasn’t in the truck — he groaned inwardly. If it was in his pocket, it wasn’t doing what he had created it to do. He had to put it back.

Teleporting back to the hotel, Crowley tracked down the valet. “Excuse me, but my partner and I have a vehicle parked here — a tan coloured Ford, looks like it should probably belong to a redneck farmer — and I was wondering if I might inquire where it’s parked.” He held up his briefcase. “I’m all done catching up on my paperwork from the office and I’d like to put this away for now.”

Before he was done speaking, the valet was already giving him a pitying look. “I’m sorry, sir, but I just brought that truck out here. I think your partner might have gone somewhere without you. He said he had checked out and wouldn’t be back.”

Of course. He shouldn’t have expected Castiel to sit around and wait for him to return. “Ah. Well then, thank you for your time.”

Crowley hurried away from the valet’s pity, walking just around the corner before teleporting to the rooftop of a New York City skyscraper. With an hour left before the appointment with the oceanographers, and no way to find Castiel if he didn’t want to be found, Crowley needed to kill time. Far below him, cars and people passed by, all in a hurry to get somewhere. All he really wanted was to kick back and relax with a glass of Craig and his favourite hellhound, but that wasn’t exactly practical.

The more he thought about the idea, though, the more plausible it seemed. Perhaps not the Craig, but at least the hellhound. Without further hesitation, he teleported deep into the heart of a forest in northern Vancouver and called, “Juliet! Come, Juliet. Come to Papa.”

No one knew how the hellhounds could always find their chosen demon, but it worked. While Crowley was hidden from scrying, it was apparently still possible for his hellhound to find him when he called, because Juliet came bounding out of the shadows on the forest floor. Two massive paws came down on his shoulders and one very wet tongue licked his cheek before she dropped to all fours again, immediately contrite for jumping up. Crowley probably should have been upset with her, but he couldn’t help smiling. Stroking her thick fur, he murmured, “There’s a good girl. Papa missed you.”

Not content to stay still for long, Juliet soon squirmed out from under his hand and dashed off. She quickly returned carrying a large fallen branch, tail wagging as she deposited it at his feet. Crowley bent and picked it up with both hands. “You want to play fetch? Alright then.”

Rather than throw it, he used his powers to send the branch to the other side of the forest. Juliet sniffed the air, then took off running, hopping from shadow to shadow to skip ahead faster than she could run. Within moments, she returned with the branch between her jaws, tail wagging happily. Crowley “threw” the branch again and again, and Juliet brought it back each time, sometimes receiving a good head rub as reward. It was such a simple pleasure, but for the first time in far too long, Crowley wasn’t overwhelmed by the many things causing him stress.

[ ](http://imgur.com/cNKUSnI)

Unfortunately, far too soon it was time for him to go. It was tempting to stay longer, but no matter what Castiel said, Crowley wanted Lucifer caught, and he wasn’t about to risk that for the sake of his own temporary happiness. It was with a sense of reluctance that he gave Juliet one last pat and sent her home. “Papa has more work to do, sweetie. Go on back home now, stay safe, and be good. I’ll see you again when I can.”

Juliet bumped her head against his chest and whined, but did as she was told, disappearing back to Hell between one moment and the next. Brushing himself off as best he could, Crowley regretted having left his other suit at the dry cleaner’s. He didn’t dare risk sneaking back into his storeroom to grab another, so he resigned himself to the slight smell of brimstone and dirt.

With ten minutes to spare, Crowley appeared in the Scripps Institute parking lot. The high tech research facility was a branch of the University of California and oceanfront property, the walls as much window as possible to take full advantage of the view. The parking lot was relatively full, but the Ford F-150 stood out from the crowd. Without a moment’s hesitation, Crowley teleported into the front seat, dropped his antique coin behind the seat and his luggage beneath it, then left again, appearing beside the building’s front door.

Standing immediately opposite him was Castiel. The angel had been standing stock still, but the moment he registered Crowley’s presence, he frowned and straightened his posture. “Oh. It’s you.”

Crowley dredged up a smile. “Missed you too, love. Pray tell, why aren’t you in there already?”

The false stiffness of Castiel’s posture relaxed minutely and he averted his eyes, looking into the building instead. “You made the appointment. I don’t know who your contact is.”

Which was probably as close to an apology as Crowley was going to get. Clapping a hand to Castiel’s arm, Crowley opened the door. “Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go find everybody’s least favourite archangel.”

Hesitating a moment, Castiel reached out and brushed the sleeve of Crowley’s coat with one finger. All of the dirt and brimstone embedded in the fibers fell away, leaving the outfit as fresh as the day it was made. With an abrupt nod, Castiel walked through the open door. “Let’s go.”

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

An hour and a half later, one former King of Hell and one former vessel to Lucifer exited the Scripps Institute much less hopeful than when they had entered. Crowley didn’t pretend familiarity with the equipment that had been used, but he understood what the researcher had said. There had indeed been an impact registered on the equipment measuring underwater seismic activity. Something had unexpectedly moved tectonic plates in the deepest part of the ocean several days ago, but there had been nothing whatsoever since then. The conclusion being that there was no reasonable conclusion. Either Lucifer had immediately found a way out of the ocean, or he was lying low and recuperating. Neither was a comforting thought.

Without bothering to ask permission, Crowley followed Castiel back to his truck. Neither said a word, climbing into the truck in silence. Castiel started to turn the key in the ignition, then stopped. Searching for words that would help, Crowley was overcome with a feeling of déjà vu. “So we still don’t know if he’s free or not. We’re no worse off than we were before. They said they’ll call us if something changes, and my contact at Fox News still hasn’t gotten back to me, so that’s got to be something.”

With a heavy sigh, Castiel looked up from the steering wheel. “We’re right back where we started. No leads, nothing to go on, waiting to hear from people who might never call.”

“No,” Crowley replied, shaking his head. “That’s not where we started. We now know for certain that Luci landed in the ocean like Mother claimed. That’s confirmed now. And we now have scientists on the lookout for us — extra people on our side — who will tell us if something else happens. So what if we didn’t hear what we wanted to hear, that’s no excuse to give up.”

“I’m _not_ giving up. I just...don’t know what to do next.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well then, Agent Beyoncé, what do Moose and Squirrel do when they can’t find anything?”

With a slight frown of concentration, Castiel replied, “Sam…Sam wouldn’t give up. He’d keep researching. Dean would probably go to the bar for a break and then go back to researching the next day.”

Grinning, Crowley nodded once. “I like the way Dean thinks. Tell you what, how about we hit up a nice little cafe, keep digging into the vessel family tree, then go blow off some steam at the local pub tonight after the cafe closes. Borrow a page from both Winchester playbooks.”

The indecision was clear on Castiel’s face, but he gave a resigned nod. “I guess it makes as much sense as anything else.”

Quickly tapping his phone to run a search, Crowley smirked. “Good. Now then, how about we get this show on the road.”

His phone returned the result he had hoped to find. Pressing play, Crowley turned up the volume to “The Boys Are Back in Town” by Thin Lizzy. Without another word, Castiel started the truck and shifted into drive. The radio was still on the news station from the other day, and for a few seconds the news had background music courtesy of Crowley’s phone. Castiel’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he turned off the news, allowing Crowley’s music selection to play.


	10. Wrong In All The Right Ways

The tentative plan became routine. By day, they researched in coffee shops and by night, they retired to the closest half-decent bar to relax and sort through the day’s results. If there was a television, Crowley could usually talk them into tuning it to the news, if only for the day’s top stories. Castiel generally spent the evening with a glass of water, watching the television and turning down various offers to buy him drinks. To avoid being asked to leave, Castiel would buy something to eat, which he invariably passed to Crowley. Of course, Crowley had no problem partaking of Castiel’s pub fries paired with a fruity cocktail.

On the fourth night of their “research and drink” plan, they had managed to find a respectable Mediterranean fusion bar and grill. Castiel sat with a dish of marinated olives while Crowley nursed a glass of the owner’s signature sangria, which wasn’t half bad. The evening news came to a close with no new relevant information, as usual. Castiel sighed and poked at an olive, rolling it around the dish. Disgusted, Crowley cleared his throat and muttered, “Don’t touch it if you’re not going to eat it.”

If he hadn’t known better, Crowley would have said the spiteful look on Castiel’s face belonged to Lucifer. It wasn’t the first time Crowley had thought such thoughts, which led him to wonder just how much influence an angel had on its vessel. He was on the verge of coming out and asking when Castiel’s phone rang. By the second ring, Castiel had it out of his coat pocket, at which point Crowley could see the name on the caller ID. Part of him was tempted to bugger off right away rather than listen to anything Dean had to say, but the rest of him was much more curious, not to mention pragmatic.

Castiel hardly spared him a glance before answering his phone with, “Hello Dean.”

The voice on the other end would have been nearly impossible for anyone but Castiel to hear, but that wasn’t a problem for Crowley. It sounded like Dean was talking while slightly inebriated. “Heya, Cas. Guess what? Last night, I killed Hitler.”

“You don’t mean…not _the_ Hitler.”

“Damn right I mean _the_ Hitler, and I gotta say, he was not at _all_ what I expected. Actually, I’m gonna crack open another beer and start from the beginning, ‘cause this is a story that deserves to be told right.”

It was a story that Crowley very much wanted to hear, and not only because he had been the one to lock down Hitler’s contract in the first place. Unfortunately, his focus was drawn away by the sensation in the back of his mind of Castiel’s vehicle moving from where they had parked it. He concentrated on the coin tucked away in his pocket and heard a male Californian voice complaining, “Wow, this guy has shitty taste in music.”

He didn’t bother to interrupt the phone conversation, but instead slapped a twenty dollar bill down on the bar, downed his drink, and left. Once outside, he could clearly see the empty parking space where Castiel’s old Ford had been parked. With a heavy sigh, he concentrated on the tracking coin to narrow down its location. In the most annoying game of hot and cold, he teleported in the direction of the coin, refocusing again at each stop to triangulate its new position.

Once Crowley finally got close enough to see it stopped at a red light, he waited until it was in motion again to teleport into the passenger seat. The driver, who looked to be in his early twenties, wore expensive clothing, a snapback hat with a fringe of blond hair peeking out the front, and more expensive gold jewelry, and he was bobbing along to the hip hop music playing on the radio. Crowley didn’t wait to be noticed. “Not only do you have horrible taste in vehicles, but you have even worse taste in clothing.”

The car swerved and the driver babbled incoherently, “What the fuck, man? What the… Where the fuck did you come from?”

Ignoring the thief’s confused babbling, Crowley continued, “You’re going to pull over now, before you crash into something and die too quickly.”

The thief shook his head and kept driving. “No way. No way, man. I dunno where the fuck you were hiding, but I ain’t goin’ to prison. I’m gonna slow down and you’re gonna jump out.”

Raising his eyebrows, Crowley jabbed the button to turn off the radio. “Kids today. Why are you all so bloody stupid? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The truck slowed down and the idiot had the audacity to scoff. “Yeah? What’re you gonna do, old man?”

With a glance behind to make sure nothing was following too close, Crowley telekinetically slammed on the brakes, then reached over and shifted the truck into park. The thief, flustered, reached into the back of his jeans for the gun-shaped bulge there, so Crowley flung him back against the seat and kept him pinned. With the thief restrained, Crowley retrieved the gun for himself. “Not that you could hurt me with this, but I’d rather you not put a hole in my suit. Armani, you know — I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”

Cars swerved around the parked truck, horns blaring in loud complaint. The headlights from the oncoming traffic illuminated the boy’s wide, terrified blue eyes and undoubtedly did the same for Crowley’s own, perfectly calm and composed, allowing the boy to see what he was dealing with. Unwilling to leave it there, the smoke that formed his essence surged up to engulf his meatsuit’s eyes in blazing red. Crowley leaned in close and whispered, “You stole from the wrong person tonight, cupcake. I’m more than a little inclined to take my time with you, except that the owner of this vehicle might object to the mess.”

Different people reacted to fear in different ways. Some people got angry, some fought to get away, some blubbered like babies. The wannabe thug being held in Castiel’s truck was paralyzed with fright, lower lip trembling, repeating over and over again, “Fffffuck fuuuuuck fuckkkk!”

Mind made up, Crowley sat back in his seat and drove the truck over to the side of the road without touching a thing. When it was safely parked out of traffic, he made certain the doors were locked, then laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m going to do the gene pool a little favour,” he said, then teleported them both out of the vehicle.

When he returned a few minutes later, the truck was exactly where he had left it. Sighing over the new muddy pawprints on his overcoat, Crowley slid into the driver’s seat and gave the controls a once-over before merging the truck into evening traffic. Juliet had been so happy to see him again, and even more so when she noticed the gift he had brought. Officials might wonder how the fellow’s body had ended up in the middle of a Vancouver forest, but that wasn’t his problem.

It had been years since Crowley had last driven anything — the last time had been a limousine in the ‘60s — but very little of consequence had changed since then. The knowledge came flooding back, and the drive back to the pub was uneventful. He even changed the radio station back to what Castiel had selected earlier, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a P!nk song. With no one around to tell him otherwise, Crowley sang along and kept the beat on the steering wheel as he drove.

_So raise your glass if you are wrong_  
_In all the right ways, all my underdogs_  
_We will never be, never be, anything but loud_  
_And nitty gritty dirty little freaks_

By the time he pulled into the pub’s parking lot, Crowley couldn’t keep the smile off his face, not that he was trying. He found a parking space, parked the truck, then set about mending the damage done to the wires when the thief had hot wired it; the ability to melt them back together with his fingers made repairs simple. When he got out, Crowley was still humming P!nk and walking in time with the song, a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

Waiting just outside was Castiel, standing rigidly out of place. His forehead was creased in his customary frown and he looked about a moment away from powering up, all smitey blue glowy and full of righteous vengeance. For the life of him, Crowley couldn’t imagine what he had done to deserve it, unless Superman thought he was the thief. He decided to avert the crisis before it could begin. “Local hooligan decided to make off with your wheels. I tracked him down, dealt with the problem, and brought it back for you. You’re welcome.”

If anything, that seemed to make matters worse, deepening Castiel’s frown. “You didn’t say anything, you just left. That’s not what partners do. And how did you track my truck if you made it untrackable?”

Raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips, Crowley put on his best innocent face. “I’m just that good?” Seeing no improvement, he relented. “Look, you were on the phone and likely to be there for quite some time, so I dealt with it myself. I didn’t want to bother you with something so trivial. Friends help friends, right?”

“How, Crowley!” growled Castiel. “How did you find my truck?”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, glancing up at nothing in search of the proper words. “I hid a tracking device in your vehicle. I’m the only one who can track it. You’re safe from anyone else scrying on you, but I can feel when it moves without us.”

Shaking his head, Castiel’s lips thinned. A couple walked out of the bar, smiling and laughing, clearly carrying a happy moment outside with them so their evening didn’t have to end just yet. Sensing the awkward tension between two men outside deflated their easy happiness, their smiles fading even as they reached out to clasp hands. In unspoken agreement, Castiel and Crowley remained silent until the pair reached their vehicle, at which point Castiel said, “Why? You don’t need me. The contacts have all been yours, you’ve done the talking, you’ve found answers and kept us — kept _me_ from giving up. So why? Why stay? Why would you bother tracking my truck?”

Responses presented themselves and were summarily discarded. _Because you would have left without me. I would have been on my own with everyone against me. Because everyone always leaves. Because you don’t trust me, so why should I trust you?_ But what Crowley said was, “Oh sure, like that’s how a partnership is supposed to work. We play to our strengths, darling. Do you honestly expect me to track down the Morningstar and wrestle him back into the Cage all by my lonesome? I’m flattered that you think so highly of me.”

"Things are never that easy or simple with you, Crowley. You can never just do something because it's good or right." He paused, then took a step into Crowley's space, and Crowley fought the instinct to take a step back. "No, what's your game, Crowley? How long before you turn on me, then slither back to Hell?"

It was a gamble. It had been years since they had squared off against each other, but Castiel still held the power to unmake him at an atomic level with the pure light of Heaven. To back down would be a clear admission of guilt, though. “My game? _My_ game? I thought my game was the same as yours, sweetcheeks: revenge.” He waved a hand, dismissively. “Yes, yes, and keeping the world safe from the wanton destructiveness of creation’s most bitter archangel, which, I might add, includes yours truly. Much as it might rankle, you need to consider the possibility that I won’t turn on you. That there’s no place for me in Hell until we’ve done what we set out to do.”

“You expect me to believe that you don’t have a plan in place to benefit if we fail here? You somehow always seem to end up on top. How is that?”

Unbelievable. Crowley was upfront and mostly honest and Heaven’s most wanted still thought he was being deceptive. “You’re concerned I might be planning for failure? I thought you knew by now. My secret is that I plan for everything, and quite frankly, it’s exhausting. I’d much prefer to assume you won’t turn on me, though I admit not knowing for sure adds a certain spice to our relationship.”

“We don’t _have_ a relationship, Crowley. You’re here because you have skills that I lack and we happen to share a goal. That’s it.”

“You desperately need to go back to your inamorato with a win, don’t you? I happen to know just how much he appreciates a fellow who can come through for him. Well then, we should do something about that shared goal, should we not? For what it’s worth, you have my word: I won’t turn on you first. Pinky swear.”

Castiel took another step forward, putting them closer than strictly comfortable. Crowley was accustomed to being shorter than his assorted business partners, but Castiel took it a step further and leaned in menacingly. “I’ve regretted many things. You don’t want to make this arrangement one of them.”

[ ](http://imgur.com/w4neFMa)

Without waiting for further response, Castiel turned and re-entered the bar, leaving Crowley outside by himself. All things considered, it had gone rather well. While he could have gone inside as well, Crowley instead reclaimed the passenger’s seat in Castiel’s old Ford. A few moments later, he had his laptop opened on the dashboard with a local radio station announcing the news. With that as background noise, he browsed Netflix for new options. There would be hours to occupy between the bar closing and a cafe opening, and Crowley intended to have Netflix queued up to the next _Orange is the New Black_ episode once Castiel returned, and something new to watch once they finished that. The art of distraction had to be good for something.


	11. Fool In The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reiterating here, the phone conversation in this chapter is co-written by [grey2510](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510) and is incomplete in this story. The full conversation can be found in grey's fic [Long Distance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409297/chapters/25556412) which is a s12e06 alternate pov story.

Another week passed and the routine began to drag. A new coffee shop in the morning, a different coffee shop in the afternoon or sometimes a library, then a bar in the evening. The only bright spot was the few rationed hours of Netflix while nothing was open for business. Once Crowley convinced Castiel to relax and take a break while nothing was open, they easily finished the rest of _Orange is the New Black_ that same night. After spending the following day speculating on all the paths the next season might take, they searched Netflix for something new and came up with _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_. Crowley tried to suggest _Grace and Frankie_ , but allowed himself to be swayed for the sake of staying in Castiel’s good graces.

A researcher from the Scripps Institute called nearly two weeks after their meeting to report an anomaly in their Pacific Ocean readings, but it could have been shifting tectonic plates, a release of underground gases, or any number of non-Lucifer things. Of course, it could have also been Lucifer. Just to be certain, Crowley checked in with what remained of his loyal contacts, but none reported anything strange, nor any sightings of Vince Vincente. Investigation continued with an increased urgency after that.

Castiel's only distraction from his dogged research was his phone. Though Crowley was never able to see what was said, texts from Dean were frequent, sometimes as often as every day or two. There would have been no knowing who they were from had Castiel not chosen to share a few tidbits. “Dean is still going on about killing Hitler, but he’s just repeating himself now,” and, “Dean wants to know if we’ve made any progress. I told him what little we have to go on,” and more recently, “Sam and Dean are hunting a ghost in Brookings.”

Neither Sam nor Dean ever bothered texting Crowley unless they needed something, and then they usually called, presumably so Dean — and it was always Dean — could better sway him. So when Dean texted Castiel about attending a funeral, Crowley assumed that would be the last they heard from him for a few days. They finished up at the Palm Springs library, then moved on to a comfortable local pub for the evening.

Stools at the bar were their usual choice, since it allowed Crowley to talk to the bartender and the locals. The news had been over for hours and had since been changed to a basketball game, in which Crowley had no interest, but which had raised the ambient noise levels in the room until it was difficult for the mortal patrons to hear. Castiel had lingered over a plate of cactus-cut fries until they were cold, then slid them over to Crowley. Fortunately, they were cut thin enough to be functionally crisps, so it didn’t so much matter. Castiel waved off the bartender, then turned to Crowley and suggested, “Maybe we could switch to another bar while it’s still early enough to catch a different crowd.”

Shrugging, Crowley said, “I don’t care either way.”

He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew enough money to cover the bill with a generous tip. As he was flagging down the bartender, Castiel’s phone rang. Careful to continue to appear busy, Crowley listened. The other patrons wouldn’t be able to hear, but he wasn’t bothered by the noise.

“Dean?”

“Uh, hey, Cas. So...what’s up?”

“Hold on, Dean. It’s very loud in here. I’m going outside.”

“Yeah, sure. Partying it up with Crowley, huh?”

“That’s not…” 

The conversation cut off as the door closed behind Castiel. Cursing his luck, Crowley paid the bartender and ordered a Scotch to go with his crisps. The bartender — the nametag said Craig and Crowley decided to take it as a sign — checked the money he was given, then grinned and poured Crowley’s Scotch without making him wait. It paid to tip well.

It wasn’t his usual brand, but something cheaper, less peaty. Crowley handed Craig enough to cover the drink and then some, flashing a flirty smile. Back in his day, that could have been a stoning offense, but on the bright side it had fine-tuned his gaydar, as the kids these days said. Craig gave him a considering once-over, then the hint of a smirk. If he played his cards right, he might find another way to fill the wee hours of the morning.

Then, through the coin, Crowley heard the truck door slam shut, followed by the faintly tinny sound of Dean’s voice. “Anyway, so, I guess Mom knew this guy, Asa, back when he was a kid. She saved him. Been checking in on old cases and stuff since she got back.”

Of all the times for his surveillance to actually pay off, it had to happen when he had a chance to get somewhere with a willing someone. Making eye contact with Craig, he licked the salt off of a crisp before eating it. In the back of his mind, he noted Dean’s reference to his mother. Something to look into once he had adequate resources again. 

To Dean, Castiel replied, “Sounds like she’s been busy with important things. Tying up loose ends. I’m sure she just needs time.”

“Right.” Crowley could hear the bitterness lurking in Dean’s words. “Loose ends. Important stuff, hunting. ‘Cause being home, with family, that’s not important…”

Castiel gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know, Dean. She’s your mother. You’d know better than I would.”

“That’s not — You know what? Forget it. Forget I called. Go find Luci or whatever with your new best bud.” 

“Crowley isn’t my new best anything.” Now that hurt. Not that he and Castiel were anything like best friends, but to be dismissed so easily… He was all set to simmer resentfully until Castiel returned, but Craig chose that moment to waggle his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure Flickr says otherwise.” Surely Dean wasn’t still going on about those photos. It wasn’t like Crowley had shared them with anyone, and besides, there were some things — like discovering the many assorted kinks of identical triplets — that absolutely needed to be preserved forever on film.

“What’s — Dean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Castiel sounded truly bewildered. What a shame. Crowley could have enlightened him, but the chances of mister Holier Than Thou appreciating such an explanation were slim to none.

Dean didn’t bother waiting for Castiel to finish talking before barreling over his words. “You got stuff to do. I’ll leave you alone. Call me if you get word on Lucifer.”

“Fine. I will.” But of course, Castiel only managed the one word before Dean hung up on him.

There came the sound of Castiel sighing again, then the soft rustle of fabric, presumably returning his phone to his pocket. Crowley waited for him to do something else — text, get out of the vehicle, drive away angry, anything — but apparently the angel’s response was to do nothing at all. Crowley was about to go back to flirting with the lovely bartender when he heard the Ford’s engine turn over. The radio came on for a moment, then a click and whirr he hadn’t heard in years. It took him a moment to identify it as the sound of a cassette tape starting up. The song that came on sounded like it more properly belonged in Dean Winchester’s vehicle.

 _Well there’s a light in your eye that keeps shining_  
_Like a star that can’t wait for the night_  
_I hate to think I’ve been blinded baby_  
_Why can’t I see you tonight?_

It was Crowley’s turn to sigh. What was it with angels? Were they all teenagers, or was it just the rebellious ones? A maudlin Castiel pining over love songs would do him no good. Even if Crowley did all the research himself, he was counting on having Castiel there to back him up when they took on Lucifer.

A glance at Craig revealed the bartender was covertly watching him between customers. It was all too easy, practically effortless. It wouldn’t have ended well. Crowley tossed back the rest of his Scotch and left his sadly cold crisps on the bar. While Craig was busy with another customer, Crowley left.

Once outside, he teleported into the passenger seat of Castiel’s truck, where “Fool in the Rain” was still playing. Castiel didn’t even make a move for his blade, instead muttering, “Not now, Crowley. I’m not in the mood.”

Castiel’s shoulders were slumped, his head resting back against the seat so he could stare up at the truck’s interior with his hands gripping fistfuls of trenchcoat. Crowley glanced from Castiel to the cassette player and back again, thinking on his feet in the hopes of finding the right words without overplaying his hand. “Of course you’re not! You’re sitting here moping about like your date cancelled on you because apparently we’re all sixteen today. Look at you. You’re a mess. Tell me who’s responsible and I’ll make certain they never hurt you again.”

Apparently that got through to him. An angel blade slid out of Castiel’s sleeve and into his hand, at which point Crowley thought it prudent to teleport outside the vehicle. He only needed a moment for Castiel to come to his senses though. Sighing, Castiel tucked his blade away and fell back against the seat. Having apparently realized the extent of Crowley’s hearing, he didn’t bother to move before speaking. “It doesn’t matter. I just — what’s Flickr?”

Slowly, keeping his eyes on Castiel the entire time, Crowley opened the door and climbed back into the vehicle the human way, closing the door behind him with a wave of his hand. “Flickr is a photo storage website. Why do you ask?”

The usual Castiel frown made its reappearance as the angel turned to properly face Crowley. “Why would Dean think there would be photos on Flickr proving that you’re my…best bud?”

Crowley shrugged, carefully nonchalant. “I suppose because when Dean and I spent that delightful summer of debauchery together, I captured the best parts in photos and posted them on Flickr. It’s entirely possible that your prom date has assumed that the two of us are having a similarly good time. Not that I hadn’t considered the possibility myself, but as a matter of fact, I abandoned a perfectly promising liaison with the handsome young bartender in there to come talk you down off the Zeppelin.”

The song finished playing and there was a brief moment of silence before the opening notes of “Kashmir” began. Castiel’s eyes flicked to the cassette player and back to Crowley again. “Nobody asked you to come out here. What’s wrong with Led Zeppelin?”

“Objectively, nothing, but I didn’t exactly peg you for the type to listen to cock rock. I didn’t even know you had a cassette for that old relic.”

“I only have the one. Dean said I should have ‘good driving music’ if I was going on a road trip.” The air quotes were again audible and Crowley had to suppress the urge to laugh.

“Dean gave it to you?” At Castiel’s nod, Crowley continued, “Was it one from his collection then?” 

“No, he said he made it. It’s a compilation of his favourite Led Zeppelin songs.”

“Huh.” Crowley leaned back into the seat, careful not to let his face show any of his inner thoughts. Dean Winchester had made Castiel a mixtape. It was obvious that Castiel had no idea of the significance of such an act, despite it being a staple of 80s movies, which should have been in Metatron’s “pop culture download”. One thing was certain: Crowley did not intend to enlighten him. 

“Kashmir” finished and “Ramble On” began before Crowley spoke again. “So, since it seems we’re stopping early tonight, what say I see what I can dig up on Netflix? _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ went entirely too quickly. I’ll see if I can find something that might last us a little longer.”

“Hmm?” Castiel turned to look at Crowley, who was already opening up the laptop. “I thought you had a…liaison tonight. The bartender?”

Crowley half-shrugged as he navigated the Netflix home screen options. “He was too easy. Probably would’ve been clingy or something. Who needs that, right?”


	12. Bloody Messiah

It was the end of November. Crowley had been road tripping with Castiel for a month — counting from when he first ran into Agent Beyoncé interviewing Tommy — and Castiel was beyond irritable. Days had passed and there had been no further phone calls or texts from Dean. It was only a matter of time before the pair made up again, but in the meantime, Crowley made sure to monopolize his new angelic bestie.

They were just leaving the latest coffee shop when Crowley’s phone rang. Caller ID showed Mr. Baier so he swiped the ‘accept call’ button. “Yes? You’d better have something for me.”

The voice on the other end was uncharacteristically diffident. “Yes, Mr. Crowley. We’ll be running a story on tonight’s news about Vince Vincente’s band Ladyheart and their return to fame. I’m told there will be an interview with Mr. Vincente himself.”

“And you’re just telling me NOW?! WHY was I not INFORMED SOONER?” Crowley continued over Baier’s weak protests, “If you think this buys you any significant time towards your contract, you’re _sadly_ mistaken. I’ll give you a month for this, no more. Next time, when I say I want to be the first to hear of it, I mean IMMEDIATELY!”

Having heard everything, Castiel said, “The news is on in an hour. See what you can find on the internet and I’ll find somewhere we can watch the broadcast.”

They had spent the morning researching the vessel bloodlines after running the usual search for anything Vince Vincente. According to the timestamps on the articles posted, they had all gone up within the hour. That didn’t mean he was going to give his cringing sellout news anchor any more credit though. Crowley was going to milk the little maggot for as long as possible, and hopefully he would end up downstairs before he could pay off his debt; anything less would be bad for business.

What Crowley discovered was anything but encouraging. Ladyheart had broken up in 1988, with all band members going their separate ways. A sudden reconciliation and highly-promoted reunion tour for a band that had crashed and burned nearly two decades prior was suspicious to say the least.

The name Russell Lemmons jumped out from the page and Crowley could already see his way to inside information. Russell was with Death Siren Records and happened to be one of his recruiters, convincing mediocre talent to sign away their souls for a fast track to stardom. According to internet buzz, Russell had been the one to sign Ladyheart to a new contract.

Everything was falling into place. A bar was located, seats at the bar were procured, and the television was tuned to the appropriate channel. The news broadcasters greeted the audience at home and related the evening’s top stories. Crowley ordered and paid for fries with dip and his favourite cocktail because after weeks of nothing, getting something felt like a win. Finally, there was just one thing left to do. “I think it’s time to alert the cavalry.”

“Sam and Dean? Are you sure? Maybe we should— “

“If we’re going to take on the last remaining archangel, we’re going to need all hands on deck, and that includes Batman and Boy Wonder.”

“I was hoping we could leave them out of this. Haven’t they already done enough?”

“Yes, of course, they’re Big Damn Heroes and should probably have statues of themselves somewhere. But, much as it pains me to admit it, without their expertise we’ll likely be squashed like insects, leaving Laurel and Hardy to handle things on their own, which is exactly what you want to avoid. So, I reiterate, call in the cavalry.”

Castiel stared at his phone, then closed his eyes, sighed, and called Dean.

[ ](http://imgur.com/7qbaLJW)

In the end, Vince was no longer Vince. Between the four of them, somehow it was Agent Beyoncé who managed to track down Vincifer’s location. It still took all four of them to save the room full of young idiots who had gathered to worship their rock god. Somehow, Crowley had actually volunteered to help Castiel hold off the archangel so the Winchesters could get everyone to safety. Unfortunately, that’s all they accomplished.

Vince Vincente was dead and Lucifer was in the wind. Despite taking a colossal beating, Castiel looked as fresh as a daisy, while Crowley would require the assistance of witchcraft before his meatsuit looked its usual dapper self. To stop Lucifer from killing Castiel, Crowley had taken the brunt of Lucifer’s assault and it showed. Still, the four of them were still alive, and for once Dean had actually acknowledged his contributions.

Honestly though, the highlight of the entire endeavour had been hearing Castiel call Dean a lumberjack. Their little petty sniping over wardrobe choices had been glorious. Crowley idly wondered if he could convince Castiel to visit his personal tailor. And why not? A single jab from the angel had been enough to prod a Winchester out of his flannel and into leather — and _thank you_ , Castiel — so perhaps the proper words might coax said angel out of that horrid car coat.

The Winchesters climbed back into their great black beast of an automobile with promises to help with the investigation on their end, leaving Crowley alone with Castiel once more. There was a moment of awkward silence between them, then Castiel said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t heal your host body. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Sentiment appreciated. Give me a mo’ to track down one of the witches I have on retainer and I’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“So…does that mean you still want to hunt down Lucifer?”

“Of course I want to hunt down Lucifer! After what he did to us, the bloody bastard deserves to be locked up.”

“Good. With the research we’ve done on his vessels, we should be able to stay one step ahead of Sam and Dean.” Castiel hesitated a moment before adding, “Can you still track the truck?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll see about finding us somewhere to stay for a day or two while we go over our research. You can go get…repaired, then come find me.”

With a hint of a smile, Crowley said, “Does this mean we get to be Special Agents again?”

“As we’re probably going to be trying to catch Lucifer by following burnt out vessels again, I’d say it’s quite likely. Yes.”

“Can I choose the music?”

“No.”

“Half then. I get to choose the radio station when we’re out of range of yours.”

“Still no.”

“Fine. I get to change it to something upbeat every time we strike out. Final offer.”

“Deal. The next series on Netflix is my choice though.”

“Sure, but the one after that is mine.”

“As long as it’s not _How to Get Away With Murder_.”

“What?! But it’s got Viola Davis! Compelling plot, interesting characters—”

“And the ultimate corruption of everyone involved. No.”

“Fine. I’ll think of something else.”

Castiel climbed into the truck that had become his. “Go get fixed up, Crowley. And…watch your back.”

With a half-smile — the other side of his face hurt too much to smile — Crowley replied, “I always do. See you soon, Cas.”

[ ](http://imgur.com/yet8XYo)

Nodding once in response, Castiel started the engine and drove off. Crowley watched him leave, then took out his phone. Sitting on the screen of the phone lay the little origami bird he had folded during their cross-country journey, its tiny form sadly crumpled thanks to the fight with Lucifer.

Using the barest wisps of power, Crowley smoothed out the extra creases in the paper until the little bird looked like a little bird once more, albeit a little more tattered than before. He then attempted to make the bird fly as it had the first time, but it took more power to keep it aloft than it had originally. He could have easily discarded it and made a new one. Instead, he smiled and guided it safely back to his pocket.

Smiling made Crowley’s face hurt all over again and reminded him that he had taken out his phone for a reason. Without further ado, he made a quick call to a witch who had always been reliable. A quick conversation later, he had an agreement to meet her in Reykjavik in an hour.

With that in mind, he teleported to one of the many unpopulated regions in Greenland. The harsh, rocky land was covered in tough, short grass, and lay in the shadow of a mountain range. As near as Crowley could tell, there was nobody around for miles. With no one to see or hear him, he opened up the contacts list in his phone and dialed R&D. The voice that answered sounded cheerful in its greeting, “Yes, my king? How can I help you today?”

“Status update on our little project?”

“It’s coming along nicely, Sire. I would estimate we have, maybe, a few more weeks left until it’s complete.”

“Excellent. If you need more hands, let me know. Take who you need, as long as you run the names by me first. There’s a good chance your work will be put to use sooner rather than later. You need to be absolutely certain it’ll hold.”

“Yes, my Liege. You have my word. The improvements we’ve made to the vessel will hold Lucifer securely, Sire. There will be no escape.”

“Well done. In that case, I’ll let you get back to work. Chop chop, no time to waste.”

“Yes, my Liege, of course.”

Crowley slipped the phone back into his pocket and spared a moment to take in the breathtaking scenery. He was alive, he had a plan to deal with Lucifer forever, and in the process he would get to spend more time with his new bestie. Everything was coming up Crowley. With most of an hour to kill, Crowley sent out a thread of summoning and called, “Here, Juliet! Come here, sweetie.”

From the mountain’s shadow came Juliet, bounding across the Greenland countryside like an overgrown puppy. At least for now, everything was good and happy and there was nothing to worry about. It had taken dying, going to Hell, and becoming a demon for Crowley to learn to savour the few good moments that life had to dish out. For the moment, it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what I had gotten myself in for when I started this back at the end of February. I wrote every chance I got for three months. Over the course of those three months, what originally began as plotless character-driven silliness, gradually became an actual story. I started this journey when we were only a short way into season 12, and now I'm posting this after the season is over. Along the way, it became a place to pour my love for these two characters, especially Crowley, who never ended up with anywhere near the love he so craved. Again, thank you to grey2510 for helping me at every step of the way, and to dmsilvis for the beautiful art. This fic wouldn't be what it is without those two. Please take a moment to go give some love to the [art masterpost](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/post/162536810273/my-art-masterpost-for-always-stuck-in-second-gear) for this story, because there was so much love poured into the gorgeous art for this story.
> 
> To the handful of people who read my existing two series and have been patiently waiting for updates, I swear you haven't been forgotten. Work has resumed on my neglected Juliet story, and after that I have plans for The Misadventures of Growley and Squirrel.
> 
> Finally, because this story turned out to be so intertwined with the music, here's a list of all the songs and artists mentioned.
> 
> Shania Twain - You're Still The One, I'm Gonna Getcha Good, That Don't Impress Me Much, No One Needs To Know, You Win My Love, Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under  
> Keith Urban - Somebody Like You  
> Selena Gomez - The Heart Wants What it Wants  
> Rihanna ft Jay Z - Umbrella  
> Carly Rae Jepsen - I Really Like You  
> Beyoncé - Halo, Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)  
> Hollyn - Love With Your Life  
> AC/DC - Back In Black  
> Queen - A Kind of Magic, Bohemian Rhapsody  
> Thin Lizzy - The Boys Are Back In Town  
> P!nk - Raise Your Glass  
> Led Zeppelin - Fool in the Rain, Kashmir, Ramble On
> 
> Artists that were mentioned without a song: Tom Jones, The Main Ingredient, Neil Diamond, Justin Bieber, Fifth Harmony, Ariana Grande, Adele, Taylor Swift, The Manhattans, Drake, and an honourary mention to Vince Vincente and Ladyheart.
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed this story, please click the kudos button and leave me a comment. Without your feedback, I have no idea who read to the end, and I'd love to hear from you. If you're so inclined, I can also be found on Tumblr as @thayerkerbasy


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